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Philip and Philippa 


A GENEALOGICAL ROMANCE 
OF TO-DAY 


BY 


/ 

JOHN OSBORNE AUSTIN 

1 \ 

AUTHOR OF 

The Journal of William Jefferay, Gentleman, 

More Seven Club Tales, (Sequel to above). 

Roger Williams Calendar. 

Genealogical Dictionary of Rhode island. 





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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

APR. 9 1901 


Copyright entry 

blASS^XXo. N». 


COPY B. 


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Copyright, 1901, 

BY 

JOHN OSBORNE AUSTIN, 
Providence, R. I. 


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NEWPORT jolqxjftlp ; V, « ‘ € « 


NEWPORT, R. J. 


PREFACE 


Is it true ? Every real love romance must 
be true. 

The same old story of love's young dream ? 
Yes, prescient reader, the world never tires of 
it; and have you found anything better to 
dream of or work for ? Where has your best 
happiness been found in all your eager striv- 
ings for some lasting content ? 

You look across the embers of your hearth, 
emblematic of passing years, (but not of your 
heart’s steady glow) to the dear one sitting 
there. 

As your eyes meet in answering love, one 
hardly needs to hear you answer — the best, 
the truest happiness, has been found with my 
Philippa. 


To 

'Philips and Philippas 
everywhere 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter I. 

Father and Son. 

ft 

II. 

On Board the “Servia.” 

« < 

III. 

Her Faulconridge. 

< c 

IV. 

Smoking-Room Philosophy. 

< ( 

V. 

Auckland. 

< ( 

VI. 

Philippa. 

( < 

VII. 

A Wedding. 

« ( 

VIII. 

The Homeward Voyage. 

( < 

IX. 

Venice-Como-Chamounix. 

< < 

X. 

At the Lodge. 

« < 

XI. 

The Conservatory. 

< < 

XII. 

“ Major” Settles It. 

( ( 

XIII. 

Philip and Philippa. 

1 < 

XIV. 

My Faulconridge. 

< < 

XV. 

International. 












# 








Philip and Philippa. 


CHAPTER I. 

FATHER AND SON. 

“Seek her out, Phil, when I am gone, and 
see that she needs for nothing. If it should 
prove that you need each other most of all, 
then the Faulconer branches shall unite again/’ 

Thus my father had spoken, only a month 
before he died. 

We had a singularly good understanding of 
each other, and it was never necessary to ex- 
plain overmuch in our conversations. 

He smiled sometimes at the quickness with 
which I read his thoughts, by the evening fire- 
side. He would say, it was the mother in me, 
for she had always read him aright; and I 
would answer, that mother was ever in his 
thoughts then, making him an easy book to 
read by firelight. 

Deep as my father’s grief was at his loss, 
he did not cease speech of her any more than 
thought, and encouraged me to talk of the one 
we so loved; a being of light and cheer, a 
comfort and joy. Nine years had passed since 
my mother’s death, and it was but too clear 
that my father was soon to join her. 

Although the blow was a crushing one, from 
which I am convinced he never recovered, 


8 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


yet he took up his new and unwontedly lonely 
life with a resolve to perform all its duties 
manfully, especially in a watchful care of my 
career, for I was but fifteen when my mother 
died. The knowledge gained at school and 
university made no more lasting impression 
on my mind, than what I gained from discus- 
sions with my father. He was a man with 
clear convictions, and could set them forth 
most convincingly, without a trace of ar- 
rogance. His conclusions seemed always so 
simple and natural that it was difficult not to 
accept them. He was accredited with much 
of that rare quality called common sense, yet 
his views were often very different from those 
generally held. He never could be suspected, 
however, of a weak desire to appear strange 
or singular. I recall one or two things which 
may serve as illustrations of his views. 

Hearing of a young man’s declaration that 
he had stifled his affection for a beautiful girl, 
on learning that she was a great heiress, my 
father dryly remarked — “ He has put his own 
estimate on the value of his affection, which, 
if true, should have been her greatest good as 
well as his own. He can only give two poor 
reasons for his decision — one, fear that the 
world might deem him a despicable fortune 
hunter; the other, fear that his heart’s choice 
might taunt him on difference in fortune. He 
has paid a poor compliment to the girl he 
thought he loved, and to the loyalty of those 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


9 


he calls friends, in letting these abject fears 
prevail.” 

But my father was as severe upon the sel- 
fishness of those who would marry without 
proper provision in estate or occupation. I 
have heard him say that he had saved a 
thousand dollars, and was receiving that in 
salary, when he married, which he deemed 
enough to venture upon; the so-called sacri- 
fice of some comforts for a few years, not 
being esteemed by either of them as too much 
for having each other. He disliked greatly, 
to hear the young, especially, place so high 
a regard on creature comforts and social 
position as to declare they could not afford 
to marry. 

He had a very low opinion of social climbers, 
believing that people had better take that 
which naturally comes to them in society, as 
in other matters. He valued the association 
with bright men and women for their own 
sake simply — and believed that no forcing- 
process should be used or tolerated. The 
inalienable right ol every man to keep his own 
individuality was too apparent to need much 
comment from him. He was not particularly 
gregarious by nature, nor one that would be 
considered as a reformer, yet he hesitated not to 
place himself squarely on the side of several 
fundamental reforms; and he cared as little 
for ridicule as any man I ever saw. He once 
said that he knew of no better method for 


10 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


sifting out false friends than the honest cham- 
pionship of an unpopular cause. 

One of the earliest lessons that he taught 
me was to hold the honest course, without 
heed to gibes or cajolery. 

Of temperance in use of liquor he deemed 
no special counsel necessary, but his ire was 
roused on hearing of a college mate of mine, 
who was plied with liquor for the heartless 
amusement of stronger-headed companions. 
“That passed thoughtlessness, Phil, it was 
mean and unmanly,” he said, in fine con- 
tempt. 

To betting and gaming he had a decided 
objection; and as I might need something in 
college to show my ability for a gritty “ no,” 
he bade me to be steadfast in that. Besides 
the unrest in the habit of taking chances, 
there was to his mind a large share of selfish- 
ness in being willing to take without an 
equivalent. He had won success in business 
by honorable dealing, and meant that I should 
pursue no other path with his approval. He 
had travelled widely and could see good things 
in other lands besides his own, feeling no need 
to bolster his patriotism by vainglorious talk 
of his country’s deeds, or material growth. 

He had well proved his love for his country 
by service in the Civil War, and he was as 
emphatic that the pension list should be a roll 
of honor, as he was that the civil service 
should be reformed and made honorable. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


11 


I would not be tedious on my father's ex- 
cellencies, which were unobtrusive, and thus 
made their impress all the more strongly. 
His health the past year had been poor; but 
within a few days had taken so serious a turn 
that his end was apparently near. He knew 
it well and did not attempt to deceive himself 
or me as to his departure, but there were a few 
last things upon his mind that must be said. 

In the conversation preceding that advice to 
seek out a cousin, far removed by space as 
well as lineage, he had been telling me how 
he first became interested in our family history. 

“I had a natural satisfaction in knowing 
that our American branch from old Sir Philip 
Faulconer, could be traced clearly, and that 
the name had been honorably borne on this 
side of the water; but no special care whether 
the race had been kept alive in England. In 
the same year, however, that your mother died, 

1 happened one day to take up an English 
paper, when my eye fell upon this notice: 

‘ Died, on the 1st inst., Sir Philip Faulconer, Kt., in his 
46th year.’ 

Then followed an account of the funeral at 
the Lodge, the old mansion having been 
recently burned with nearly all its contents, 
including the ancient family portraits. Touch- 
ing these last, however, the article stated that 
photographs had been preserved, fortunately, 
of all of them, even to little Philippa, aged 
five, sole representative of the race, her father 


12 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


also having been an only child. The estate, it 
seems, was so badly encumbered that nothing 
remained for this little maid; and a great-aunt 
on her mother’s side, would take her out to 
New Zealand. 

In my own great grief at the loss of your 
mother, 1 could not help feeling some interest 
in reading this brief story, from its coincidences 
if no more. 

Sir Philip had died in the same year as 
my wife, he was an only child and had but 
one, which was my own case exactly; and 
if his line of ancestors was preserved by 
photographs, I was fortunate in possessing 
likenesses in miniature of my line, unbroken, 
through ten generations, to the same Sir Philip 
whence he sprang. These facts seemed to 
make your faraway little cousin of nearer 
kinship than eighth degree, and I determined 
to write and assure myself that she was well 
cared for. I found this to be the case and 
that she would undoubtedly be comfortably 
brought up in her distant abode, though in 
homely rather than luxurious fashion, her 
mother’s aunt having but a small estate. 

The child’s mother had died the year before 
Sir Philip’s decease. I received copies of the 
old portraits, and also secured a very good 
photograph of the Elizabethan house that our 
common ancestor built in 1600, and which I 
learned had been little changed by successive 
generations. By aid of plans made by an 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


13 


English architect, I have been able to reproduce 
the old house very nearly, and so our Faul- 
conridge, built in 1880, takes the place of the 
ancient one of 1600, and the photographs in 
our hall must answer for the old portraits that 
were burned. I have been over the sea once 
since your mother died, as you know, and 
visited the site of the old house, which is not 
so different from our own situation here in 
nearness to the ocean and general aspect of 
country, though we lack the ancient ivied 
church. The Lodge, with an acre about it, I 
bought, and fitted up, placing an old servant 
of the family in it as tenant for the present. 
It is a comfortable habitation, prettily situated, 
well sheltered, and rose-embowered; and 1 had 
hoped to pass some pleasant weeks there this 
summer with you, if my health allowed. 
When the little maid grows old enough, Phil, 
give her this place and something to support 
it, with my love. She will take both from 
me; though neither from you, perhaps, if 
offered. 

I found some solace in my grief at your 
mother’s loss, while working out plans that 
I knew she would have delighted to help me 
in, and you, my boy, must not mourn too 
hardly for your father, but have a hearty in- 
terest to engage you.” 

And now a month had passed, and he was 
indeed gone forever. He had done what he 
could to make the parting easier, but it was 


14 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


hard enough. I knew just what he meant by 
those words about my cousin. They were 
intended in the first place to give me an interest 
worth following up, viz., the welfare of my 
young cousin Philippa; and this he hoped 
would temper my grief at his loss. In the 
second place, while he would not, if he could, 
constrain my love, yet he knew I was fancy 
free; why not therefore this little cousin, as 
well as another, if our hearts inclined ? It 
was like all his propositions — clearly put, for 
if our hearts did so incline there was certainly 
great fitness otherwise, and this fitness should 
not prejudice us to any war against natural 
inclination. It was true my inclining might 
be met by her declining, but that is a risk the 
sex must always take; and less than a year 
after my father’s death I started forth with a 
copy of Philippa’s five-year-old portrait for 
present reminder of my quest. 

For my readers assistance I will here submit 
a chart, that they may the more clearly follow 
paths, hitherto widely divergent, but which 
I was rash enough to hope might yet have a 
happy converging. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


15 


SIR PHILIP FAULCONERi, Knight. 
1560-1645 

Of Faulconridge — Sussex. 


Richard 2 
] 600-1690 

Twin brothers 

Sir Philip 2 
1600-1680 

Philip 3 
1625-1700 

1 st. cousins 

Sir Philip ; 
1635-1706 

Richard 4 
1652-1729 

2 nd. 

li 

Sir Philip 4 
1660-1735 

Godfrey 5 
1682-1761 

3rd. 

< t 

Sir Philip 5 
1687-1765 

Philip 6 
1710-1800 

4th. 

l< 

Sir Philip 6 
1718-1797 

Symon 7 
1736-1808 

5th. 

< < 

Sir Philip 7 
1745-1799 

Philip 8 
1775-1848 

6 th. 

( i 

Sir Philip 8 
1782-1863 

Philip q 
1815-1886 

7th. 

i l 

Sir Philip q 
1832-1877 

Philip 10 

1862 

8 th. 

i l 

Philippa 10 
1872 


NOTE. — Richard 2, (1600-1690) embarked for New England in 
1645, upon the death of his father, bringing with him a small 
estate and three miniatures (painted just prior to leaving) of 
his father, himself and his son. He named his new abode 
Faulconridge, in memory of the home of his youth. 


CHAPTER II. 

ON BOARD THE “SERVIA.” 

The Cunard steamship “Servia” was adver- 
tised to leave her pier in New York at nine a. 
m., but it was soon after eight when I stepped 
on to the gang-plank, carrying my traveling 
bag, overcoat and umbrella, sole impedimenta ; 
for the lesson of curtailing to essentials only, 
had been learned in earlier journeys, though I 
had never crossed the ocean. 

There was the usual bustle of the last hour 
before a great steamer’s departure, not only 
the stowing of cargo, baggage and mail; but 
oft-repeated messages, final good-byes, both 
laughing and tearful, and a buzzing of ques- 
tions into the ears of the generally patient 
stewards. There were many little side-plays, 
glimpses into other lives, that were unavoid- 
able, sometimes ludicrous, often pathetic; 
which passed before me, as I stood somewhat 
listlessly, with a new loneliness creeping over 
me. I began to realize how small my own 
world really was in close friends, for hitherto 
1 had not seemed to need many, in such a 
companionship as my father’s and mine had 
been. Those I had were tried and true, but 
none could be present, and not a familiar face 
did I see. I solaced myself with the thought 
that I had all the more freedom to study my 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


17 


fellow men and women as they passed, or 
lingered near, in doleful or joyful converse. 

1 had been for sometime assorting my fellow 
passengers by grouping them into typical sets 
in advance, with a determination to ascertain 
later how nearly true my character reading 
might prove. 

I was progressing pretty well, having de- 
cided which was the college professor, with a 
year’s absence granted for the study of art in 
Greece; the retired merchant, whose wife and 
daughters had overcome his reluctance to 
journeying abroad, but who was still doubtful 
how he should manage conditions so different 
f rom his accustomed routine ; the eager young 
school mistress, who had so long dreamed of 
this trip, and did not mean to miss anything 
in seeing and doing, that time and strength 
would allow; the banker, who had to cross 
every year to rest from the tension of his deals 
and syndicates; the society man who always 
went over for the London season, but would 
be back at Newport in August; the^ clergyman 
who would attend a convention and a con- 
gress, and wheel a little afterward; the brisk 
little old lady, who had crossed twenty times 
and knew every watering place in Europe; the 
man who was a buyer for a New York house; 
the man who hoped to be a seller, if he could 
float his scheme and stock successfully; the 
lady who was taking some younger ladies 
under her special care, for study and recreation ; 


18 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


the artist who was to seek out subjects for his 
sketch book; the author who would give his 
“impressions” or write his story, later; — but 
here my train of thought was broken by a 
pleasantly-modulated voice of inquiry. 

“Pardon me, sir, but can you tell me where 
I can find the deck steward?” As I turned 
and assured her that this much sought after 
personage had just passed into the social room, 
I observed that my questioner was a middle 
aged lady, of pleasant and refined manners, 
and that she was accompanied by a younger 
one, stylishly but quietly dressed, who was 
decidedly pretty. As it happened that the 
steward had vanished again, I could do no less 
than attempt his capture and return, which I 
successfully accomplished, and was rewarded 
with grateful thanks for my chase, as a missing 
trunk was the anxiety on their minds. This 
was happily relieved by its tardy arrival just 
before the steamer sailed, the older lady ex- 
plaining that it was the more important to 
them as they were depending on it fora long 
journey to Auckland, New Zealand. 

This was interesting news to me, as it was 
my own destination, and on mentioning this 
with the names of persons who proved to be 
mutual friends, we were soon upon a very 
pleasant footing for the voyage. 

Mrs. Mitchell’s features showed strength of 
character as well as much kindliness; with a 
sense of humor that is always an encouraging 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


19 


sign where some intimacy is probable. Her 
daughter Grace evidently inherited some of 
the same qualities, and although she looked 
forth serenely upon the world from her gray 
eyes, yet there was a merry sparkle, latent 
there, appreciative of situations about us. I 
explained that I had been engaged in the more 
or less laudable occupation of arranging my 
fellow voyagers typically, and gave the results 
so far as 1 had proceeded, for their agreement 
or dissent. 

“It is too bad, mother, that we should have 
disturbed Mr. Faulconer at such an interesting 
stage of his progress,” said Miss Mitchell, 
rather mischievously, I thought, though very 
demurely. 

I assured them that it was a most happy 
interruption to my train of thought, allowing 
an introduction to friends of my friends; and 
added that I had already begun to tire of 
type-setting when their inquiry about the 
steward was made. 

“Could you not enlarge your list so far as 
to locate us in some comfortable way ?” asked 
Mrs. Mitchell; “ provided you have not already 
disposed of us!” 

“Your proposition is one fraught with much 
peril to me, Mrs. Mitchell,” I answered, “and 
should be well considered, lest I lose the good 
opinion you have already expressed as to my 
insight, by making a most dismal failure. 
Your request however shall be a command. 


20 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Hear then the answer that shall make or mar 
me forever. I see a fond mother conveying 
a most estimable young lady to one who has 
also grown so fond that he counts the days 
anxiously till her arrival. 

This is brief, but apparently to the point, 
for 1 hear no denial.” 

“A mind reader indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Mitchell ; ‘ ‘ unless you have heard very recently 
from mutual friends,” she added shrewdly. 

“ How did you know ?” said her daughter, 
with a little flush, in her pretty perplexity, 
that was very becoming. 

“It was not by that exuberant manner which 
betrays the happiness of some” I said, “and 
certainly not by the flippant style of others 
who wish all to know that an engagement 
does not mean with them extinguishment. 
Your case seemed to me rather that of one 
so sure of happiness present and to come that 
you wanted to help others, in your own thank- 
fulness. You see I gave you credit for a much 
broader horizon in your outlook than the 
ordinary engaged young woman is supposed 
to have.” 

“It is evident, mother, that we have with 
us a most discerning and discreet young man. 
You deserve that, Mr. Faulconer, for deciding 
beforehand that I was ‘a most estimable young 
lady’;” and she added, as I laughed outright, 
“ I believe you called me that to draw me out ! 
I forgive you, and, yes, I will help you if you 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


21 


need it — and I am able — ” she said merrily; 
but brightly as it was uttered, and little as I 
yet knew her, I believed she meant it. The 
fact was that we already believed in each 
other’s essential sincerity, I think. There are 
some people, rarely enough met it is true, to 
whom one gives readily a good share of con- 
fidence, and I had this thought at once about 
Miss Mitchell. Many young girls have the 
power to charm, but in her case, I always felt 
as if the word sterling expressed one of her 
best qualities. We were now upon a com- 
fortable and frank basis for our voyage, and 
watched the new arrivals as if we had been a 
family party. 

“Miss Mitchell,” I said presently, “there 
is now an opportunity for you to typify these 
last two arrivals. It is no more than fair, since 
I dared so much in accepting your mother’s 
challenge.” 

“ If I must then,” she replied, “ ‘ ’twere well 
it were done quickly.’ They are evidently 
strangers to each other, and represent the 
extremes that sometimes meet. Both are of- 
fensive types to me. The self-sufficient and 
assertive young man would have you know 
that he is as good as any one, if you meet his 
early and effusive advances rather coldly. 
Notwithstanding this assurance you may be 
excused if you think you have met a better. 
The lady, near him on the right, represents 
an all too common type in her sex. She is so 


22 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


afraid of contact with any one outside her 
social plane, that she is in danger of forgetting 
some of the proper and customary responses 
to courtesy that would not really endanger her 
standing, which after all I fear she is not quite 
sure about. But see, we are moving, and here 
comes that always belated passenger, racing 
down the pier, yet alas, too late! Fateful 
words for him, and none to condole, for those 
gamins seem to enjoy his discomfiture hugely. 
What are the hours for meals, Mr. Faulconer ? 
This first whiff from the ocean has made me 
hungry.” 

“That reminds me ladies,” 1 answered, 
“that I must go below and secure our seats 
at table. I will bring you the desired infor- 
mation, Miss Mitchell, as to meals, and also 
some biscuits for present sustenance. You 
shall not starve while I survive.” 

That evening as we sat out on deck talking 
of the people and land we had left, and the 
countries we were soon to see, new to us all 
alike, it hardly seemed possible that we had 
come aboard as strangers but a few hours 
before. I could readily see that I had met 
with good fortune at the start in such travelling 
companions, whatever awaited me later in my 
quest. The days passed pleasantly, for we 
were favored with fair weather and were 
happy to find ourselves good sailors. Mrs. 
Mitchell’s appetite and mine were almost as 
good as her daughter’s; and all who have been 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


23 


aboard ship know that eating and sleeping are 
among the most important events. 

We had the ship literature, as well as our 
own books, to read and discuss, and the 
regular constitutional promenading of decks; 
with further resource for myself of the smok- 
ing room. 

A death in the steerage and committing 
to the deep; services Sunday, read by the 
Captain; and an entertainment one evening, 
consisting of music, readings and recitations; 
made the not unusual breaks in an uneventful 
voyage. 

As we drew near the end of this part of our 
journey, the conversation naturally turned up- 
on plans for the immediate future ; the disposal 
of a week that would elapse before proceeding 
to Brindisi to join the P. & O. steamer. Mrs. 
Mitchell and her daughter decided to give two 
days to London, and then see what they could 
of the Continent en route to Brindisi. I should 
be obliged to part with them at London for a 
time. We had gained a hearty liking for each 
other already. They had the charming and 
unaffected manners that come from native 
refinement and kindliness of heart; and con- 
tact with the world and society had not shaken 
the high standards and ideals of either of them. 
This was in refreshing contrast to a few of 
those at our table, whose main desire seemed 
to be to monopolise the conversation and any 
delicacies within reach; showing that sublime 


24 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


disregard of the rights of others which always 
marks a small mind, whether the raiment be 
coarse or line. 

It was delightful to see Miss Mitchell’s man- 
ifest pleasure at the first sight of land, the 
bold coast of green Erin; and to hear her 
joyful exclamations as we passed into that 
noble harbor of Queenstown, few finer any 
where. 

The blarney and ready wit of the sons and 
daughters of the soil who favored us with an 
opportunity of purchasing shillalahs, peat or- 
naments, lace, etc., amused her vastly. “ ‘ ’Tis 
Irish eyes you have, darlint, indade it is,’ ” 
said one, and another old woman implored 
her never to forget “Kitty Donohue,” as we 
steamed away from the flotilla of boats that 
had besieged us. 

Miss Mitchell waved her hand to Kitty and 
her companion, in appreciation, as she said, 
of the compliment, and assurance of her 
everlasting regard. 

“What blessings I have brought upon myself 
by my very modest expenditures,” she added; 
“for undying friendships already are mine 
on this side ol the ocean.” 

We reached Liverpool in such good time 
that I prevailed on Mrs. Mitchell to make a 
day’s trip to Chester and Conway castle, before 
going through to London. The walls, cathe- 
dral, rows, and general quaintness of Chester 
charmed Miss Mitchell, and she was enthusi- 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


25 


astic over Conway. “ I do not wonder,” she 
said, “that Hawthorne gives it the palm, for 
it is so beautiful as well as grand and imposing. 

I do wish the walls around Conway could 
have been as well preserved as the castle, and 
even yet I hope it is not too late to save them.” 

After a lunch at the quaint inn, not very far 
from the castle, we sped on to London. A 
night’s rest at the Inns of Court Hotel put us 
in the humor for further sight-seeing, but I 
had to content myself for the present with a 
visit to Westminster Abbey and a stroll in 
Hyde Park and Kensington Garden; bidding 
goodbye to my friends very reluctantly, not- 
withstanding we were so soon to meet again. 

I took my ticket for Eastbourne, and as 
London was gradually left behind, I pondered 
as to the vital hold that this great metropolis 
has upon all intelligent travellers of the Eng- 
lish-speaking race. It is something more 
than the historic sites on every side, some- 
thing that takes a personal hold upon the af- 
fections, but is not readily analyzed. A few 
have tried, and it is a proof of the many-sided 
claims the city presents, that it is explained 
from such different standpoints. 

Certainly it seems like a “home from 
home, ” in spite of its vastness; and in this 
homelike quality unlike any other city in the 
world. 

Doubtless part of the feeling is racial, lor 
one cannot but remember that in these very 


26 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


streets our ancestors walked, in that old Abbey 
they worshipped, and in what were then still 
country fields, they tilled. The feeling will 
not be stifled even when we remember also 
that some injustice was meted out to our 
forefathers, which induced their departure. 
We know it all, but we feel the spell. So 
much so that we smile leniently upon the 
present Londoner, who indulges the belief 
that his city is the world, or the best part of 
it. He is a kindly soul, if he is a little assured. 


CHAPTER III. 

HER FAULCONRIDGE. 

Some inquiries were necessary at East- 
bourne, as to my next movements, and I 
took pleasant lodgings, near the esplanade; 
finding time ere dusk for a walk to Beachy 
Head. 

On the next day I determined to drive to 
my destination, though there were stations 
somewhat nearer Faulconridge than East- 
bourne. 

A few hours brought me to the little ham- 
let upon the outskirts of which lay my an- 
cestral acres; or rather acre, and that one in 
trust for another. 

If I were to say another who was already be- 
coming a dear image to my heart, it might seem 
to some a little premature, but the reader may 
not be unaware that I had done a good deal of 
thinking on the voyage, and there was much 
near me now to stir my imagination if not 
my heart. 

I dismissed the driver at the village inn and 
left my bag there to follow me, after getting 
directions as to the path I should take for the 
Lodge. 

Hawthorne hedges were still in bloom, 
though it was their last blossoming of pink 
and white, scarlet poppies nodded a welcome 


28 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


to me from the fields, and the little English 
daisies slyly winked as if they understood 
my coming perfectly. A sky lark dropped 
out of space, with something in his sweet 
note that I chose to construe as approval of 
me and my errand. He could not have so 
heralded it if unwise or ill-considered. 

It would have been a stolid man, indeed, 
who could have thus neared the home of his 
ancestors, without a thrill of joy, intensified 
as the house itself finally came in view, with 
its old gray tower a prominent feature. 

Here I found Mrs. Brown, installed as my 
father had told, a shrewd but kindly soul 
evidently, of some seventy years as I learned 
later, but not looking her age. 

She welcomed me heartily on learning my 
name, but grieved much at my father’s death. 
“There are scarce any left now of the 
name, ” she said, “only you and the poor lit- 
tle lady so far away; and it is a long time 
since I have had news of her, almost three 
years. ” 1 asked where she then was and in 

whose care, and learned that her great aunt 
had died about three years before; confiding 
Philippa to the care of a Mrs. Graham in 
Auckland, a worthy woman but not related 
to the Faulconers. “I served the family more 
than thirty years,” said Mrs. Brown, “until 
old Sir Philip died, grandfather of Philippa, 
and then all of us had to go except a maid or 
two, for the estate had been heavily mort- 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


29 


gaged to pay debts brought upon him in try- 
ing to help others. He got small thanks from 
them, poor man, and left little to his son ex- 
cept a legacy of ruin, as he truly said. The 
last Sir Philip I knew little of, for I left this 
part of Sussex on the death of his father, and 
only returned when your father found me and 
placed me as tenant on this remnant which 
he bought out of the wreck of a fine old es- 
tate. I wish you could have seen it, Mr. 
Faulconer, as I remember it, fifty years ago, 
when the old knight kept open house, with 
plenty for all. I do not like to think of the 
sadder times toward the last of my service. 
They tried to keep it up bravely for a time, 
not caring for display, but hoping to pay their 
debts and save the old house and some of the 
great trees that the old knight loved so dearly, 
The debts were paid, but nothing was then 
left, and even the old mansion would have 
gone to strangers if it had not burned. Per- 
haps it was as well it did, if the Faulconers 
could not have it. I would like to show you 
where it stood, sir, and some of the fine old 
trees still left. ” Readily assenting, we walked 
over a good part of the estate, visiting the 
site of the mansion, the now overgrown park 
and some line woodland, through which the 
line of the old avenue could still be traced. 
There was no better vantage ground, how- 
ever, for a view of the ancient domain, than 
from the Lodge. This Mrs. Brown told me 


30 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


had been built on to what remained of an an- 
cient tower that was the residence of the 
family generations before the mansion house 
was built, in the days when the Faulconers dew 
their own faulcons. I was glad for this bit 
of family history, and as I looked out from my 
window in the same old tower that evening. 

1 felt quite like a feudal proprietor, for if only 
an acre remained, my gaze could still follow 
the wider area once owned. Would Philippa 
sometime look out from this same window 
in happy possession, and should I be the still 
happier possessor of my cousin ? It was a 
thought pleasant to dream on, at least. 

The first thing that my eyes rested upon in 
the morning, was a little robin-red-breast on 
the window ledge, his bright eyes fixed on 
me, while he pecked at imaginary crumbs so 
suggestively, that 1 could not resist taking the 
hint. Arising as quietly as possible and plac- 
ing some pieces of biscuit within his reach, 

1 had my little visitor as a neighbourly 
companion for quite a period, ere I finally rose 
again to dress. Every morning during my 
stay he favored me with a call at about the 
same hour, and we grew so friendly that 
finally he would take the crumbs from my 
hand very courageously, though the little 
fellow was hardly half as large as the robins 
I had known in America. Perhaps Philippa 
might yet feed him from this same window. 
Would that it might be she and I! 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


31 


My father was right in saying that the 
general aspect of the country resembled the 
region about our own Faulconridge. The 
likeness was striking, even to the swale of the 
land looking seaward. I soon knew every 
path, lane, and stile within a wide circuit of 
the Lodge, and in the evening would exchange 
the account of my rambles over the country- 
side, for Mrs. Brown’s old stories of the family, 
which apparently were inexhaustible. She 
was very confident that Philippa must have 
grown to the exact image of her grandmother, 
a beautiful woman, as a youthful picture of 
her showed, that Mrs. Brown considered the 
treasure of the house. 

She was so sure ol this likeness between 
Philippa, and her old mistress at sixteen, that 
1 had the portrait photographed as a possible 
means of identification in the search for my 
cousin, should I not find her as readily as I 
hoped. Mrs. Brown was greatly interested 
to learn that 1 had been entrusted with some 
business, by my father, touching Philippa’s 
welfare; and I think was already planning a 
possible future for us not too far apart. 

It was amusing to observe how completely 
she dropped out the many degrees of our 
cousinship, really so distant, and her habit of 
considering us as actually cousins, in the or- 
dinary sense, was one that I soon fell into. 

I found my father’s hand all through the 
house, for he had not only secured copies of 


32 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


the ancient portraits, but recovered several ar- 
ticles of furniture that had belonged to the 
mansion, but which had become scattered 
after their rescue from the flames. 

The days sped so fast that my week was 
nearly gone before I realized, and I should 
have been glad to lengthen it to several, if 
my plans for my cousin had not taken the 
first place in my mind. 

Mrs. Brown had been doing some hard 
thinking for a day or two, it was evident, 
and the result now appeared in a letter which 
she had laboriously prepared, and desired me 
to give to Philippa, as soon as I met her. She 
wished me to read it now, so that 1 might as- 
sure her that the message she sent was clearly 
put. It was quite brief 
“ Dear Miss Faulconer, 

Or I hope I may call you, dear Philippa, 
my child, for I am an old woman now, with 
no child of my own, though one in heaven 
who died at about your age. Perhaps that is 
one reason, dear, why my heart goes out to 
you across the great ocean that separates us. 

I served your grandmother over thirty 
years, and she said a kind word to me just 
before she died that made me happy then 
and has often done so since. ‘ Trusty friend ’, 
was what she whispered. I am sure you 
look like the picture of her when she was a 
young girl, long before I knew her, of course. 
Your cousin has had the picture photographed, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


33 


and will have a copy with him to see whether 
1 am right. 

1 wish you would come to old England 
where you were born, and live at this Lodge, 
where 1 could serve you for the rest of my 
days. 

I believe you would be happy here, where 
your family dwelt hundreds of years ago, 
where your father and mother, and so many 
before them, lie buried. 

Will you not come now, before you get 
rooted in that far off land, away from where 
your kindred lived and died? I do not write 
very easily, as I am not accustomed to it 
lately, though I often wrote letters for your 
grandmother long years ago. 

Mr. Faulconer, your cousin, will give you 
this, and I have had him read it to be sure 
that it is plain enough for you to read and 
understand. 

In deepest respect and love. 

Elizabeth Brown.” 

The good woman handed me another letter 
which had been lately found in an old desk, 
and probably overlooked by my father, the 
drawer having been rather cunningly con- 
cealed. It was yellow with age, and was 
addressed to “Sir Philip Faulconer, Knight, 
Faulconridge, in Sussex, near Bournemouth. 
By hand of Captain Warner.” It was dated 
November ye 9th, 1700. 


34 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. • 


Lo. Cozen: 

This is to acquaint you of mv father’s death. 
He had much to say, at the last, of the old 
place in England, which you do so well 
maintain. He was a youth scarce twenty 
when he left Sussex, yet he fain would see 
again the house his grandfather did build. 
Another strange conceit (perchance from some 
lightness of the head in his fever) was that his 
grandson Godfrey, coming nineteen, might 
wed your daughter Philippa, near sixteen, 
methinks. I write this in no likelihood that 
your daughter and my son may ever marry, 
but to make true a promise that I gave my 
father to humour him therein. 

In much grief, but all respect and love from 
me and mine to thee and thine, I rest for the 
present, 

Richard Faulconer 

The letter was endorsed in another hand: 

“My daughter Philippa died early the next 
year, and hearing that Godfrey, her cozen, 
would come and try to win her love; she bade 
me tell him that however that might have 
turned for them, she sent him all the love a 
maid might give to a cousin unseen, save only 
what belonged to her family and her God.” 

Mrs. Brown’s eyes moistened as I deciphered 
the old writing for her, and she looked at me 
for a moment a little pensively, as if weigh- 
ing the possibility of my acting Godfrey’s 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


35 


part, with a happier conclusion. She said 
nothing, however, as hers was always that 
kind of discretion which comes from a proper 
sense of fitness and a good heart ; a combina- 
tion I have often found lacking in persons of 
more pretension to breeding. 

On this last evening of my stay, I sat by the 
window in the long twilight, musing over 
Godfrey’s case, and mine, trusting that I 
might have a more fortunate journey ; and a 
shiver of apprehension stole over me for a 
moment,, at the mere thought that it could be 
fruitless from the same cause. 

That message was the last one which 
passed between the families until my father’s 
day, the later American generations scarcely 
knowing of the existence of their English 
cousins. 

The strangeness to me was in this repeat- 
ing of history so nearly; and the thread of 
Philippa’s and my fate, was inextricably in- 
terwoven with my grandfather Godfrey’s and 
his Philippa’s in my dreams that last night at 
Faulconridge. 

I parted with Mrs. Brown the next day 
with sincere regret, for I had learned to like 
and respect her much. 1 assured her that the 
letter entrusted to my care should be duly de- 
livered, and pleased her greatly by promising 
to write about my cousin ; whether she re- 
sembled her grandmother’s picture, and as to 
her decision about returning. 


36 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


This ancient abode of my ancestors had 
certainly cast a spell most strong over me, for 
I looked back with real longing at the Lodge 
and all its now familiar surroundings, as 1 
passed around the last turn which afforded 
any view. 

A few hours more and the channel had 
been crossed, and Brindisi was reached in 
due time ; where Mrs. Mitchell and her daugh- 
ter greeted me like old friends, as I stepped 
on board the P. & O. steamer. 

Their unaffected pleasure in seeing me again 
was very gratifying, with perhaps one selfish 
aspect; for I was beginning to feel that my 
plans for my cousin’s return presented some 
possible difficulties, that my friends, espec- 
ially Mrs. Mitchell, might help me measura- 
bly, in surmounting. As it would have been 
a pleasure to me to assist them in any way, 
I felt equally sure that they would give me 
their endorsement, from what they knew of 
and about me; and I might need some cre- 
dentials or at least identification, when I pre- 
sented my case to Philippa and her friends. 

Miss Mitchell’s account of what they had 
seen was graphic, and evidently they had 
used their time to excellent advantage. “ Let 
me try to summarize it all briefly,” she said. 

“After leaving dear old London, where we 
saw, as you know, Westminster Abbey and 
Hyde Park, at least, and got the color or im- 
pression of much more; we first took Paris, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


37 


and don’t laugh if I say we saw it in a day! 

I know all could not be seen there in a year, 
and perhaps not much of the pictures alone, in 
a fortnight. We were impressionists merely, 
however, and sought to get glimpses of many 
beautiful things in our short pilgrimage on 
the continent, rather than to see a few things 
thoroughly. With this confession I will pro- 
ceed, and you shall follow me if you are able. 

In Paris then, a drive on the Champs fily- 
see and Bois du Boulogne, with the church 
of the Madeleine and Arch de Triomphe en 
route; changing at the Seine, near the Eiffel 
Tower, to a steamboat, and continuing to 
Notre Dame, and back to the Louvre. 

In our hour or two at the latter place we 
confined ourselves to the pre-eminent works 
of art. I shall never forget the Murillos and 
the Venus of Milo. 

Next, Nice and a drive over the wonderful 
Corniche Road to Mentone, visiting Monte 
Carlo’s gilded salons that evening. How un- 
alluring the glittering veneer over so much 
frivolity and heart-burning and vice; but how 
beautiful all was outside in the moonlight and 
how superb the situation! Milan Cathedral 
soon followed, enough itself with the grandeur 
and beauty that appeals to every one; but 
we were especially favored, for as we turned 
from the view on the roof of that forest of 
frosted spires and statuary all about us, away 
off on the horizon was Monte Rosa in its 


38 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


mantle of everlasting snow, touched with a 
beautiful pink flush; a scene never to be for- 
gotten. A sail on lovely Como, around 
Bellagio to Lecco, the amphitheatre at Verona, 
(our only good view of Roman remains, and 
a most satisfactory one it was) then last of 
all Venice, bride of the sea indeed! 

Here I had to stop the use of all superla- 
tives and look around me spell-bound. 1 do 
so wish you could have been with us, Mr. 
Faulconer, as the gondola shot into the dark- 
ness of that first canal and left bustle of 
trains and street noises behind us, forever, as 
it seemed. The moon shone forth again as 
we came into the Grand Canal, and we sailed 
by the old palaces under ideal conditions. 
That same night we took our first view of 
San Marco and the Campanile, and, 1 suppose 
I must allow it, of Florian’s too, if you will 
excuse the sudden descent from my enthu- 
siasm to prosaic ices! 

Is it because last impressions are stongest, 
that Venice seems sometimes the best of all ? 
But I will not attempt to compare, where 
everything was so lovely. 

Does not all this sound dreadfully hurried 
and jumbled together in the telling? Yet 
after all I really believe we were right in see- 
ing what we could when we could, in spite 
of the accusation that many will make, of 
ridiculous haste. It was for us to consider 
whether, in possibly our only opportunity, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


39 


we should see one thing thoroughly or get 
superficial pictures, if you please, of many 
things as charming as they were varied. I 
believe there was rest in these very changes, 
for neither of us is fatigued, and travel at 
night was always avoided. 

I am sure we have preserved unconfused 
pictures, glimpses as I have called them, of 
wonderfully beautiful and interesting things, 
and I would not have missed one of them. 

Think what a revelation it was to poor 
untravelled me, and mother has never been 
much farther from home. After all that we 
had done, we were charged by ‘the young 
lady with the notebook, ’ as we used to call 
her on the steamer, and whom we met again 
at Venice; with not having half used our op- 
portunities. She showed us what we had 
lost or neglected, and after that chiding we 
considered ourselves most deliberate travel- 
ers. It would bewilder you and make you 
fairly dizzy, as it did me, to hear her itinerary, 
even. I could think of nothing but lightning- 
change artists and quick lunch methods, as 
she concluded; and warned her that she was 
growing thin on such a regimen. ” 

“Now Grace, if you have given full scope 
to your enthusiasm, which you know, dear, 
that I share, (though not so voluble as my 
daughter, nor blessed with such a command 
of language) ; let us hear how Mr. Faulconer 
has busied himself, ” said Mrs. Mitchell. 


40 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


I described as well as I could the home of 
my ancestors, and impressions when dwelling 
in the old tower, from which Faulconers of 
old had flown their hawks. 

They were much interested in the stories 
Mrs. Brown had told of the tower and its 
former occupants, and I took this time to in- 
form them more particularly of my father’s 
desire as to my cousin, and my plans for carry- 
ing out his wishes. They had already given 
me a clear idea of what their movements 
would be on arrival at Auckland. 

Mr. Clearfield was to meet them on the 
steamer’s arrival, and they would go to his 
large farm after a quiet marriage ceremony in 
Auckland. He had other interests beside this 
farm property, having formerly been engaged 
in the gold mines; but the farm life was 
most congenial to him, and as his neighbours 
were large proprietors like himself, they 
formed quite a community of gentleman 
farmers in a district famed for its natural 
scenery, as well as abounding in good graz- 
ing and tillage. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SMOKING-ROOM PHILOSOPHY. 

If the voyage was a long one, there was 
certainly nothing irksome in it to me, with 
such pleasant company; but steamer life is 
the same everywhere, and I will avoid details 
of our routine; nor will I attempt description 
of the ports where we briefly called. 

I must, however, make some passing refer- 
ence to the smoking-room philosopher, or to 
his sententious sayings, which soon became 
quoted throughout the ship. He generally 
wound up, in a few words, the many and ex- 
tended arguments that were indulged in upon 
every conceivable topic by the habituhs of 
the smoking room. He was a good observer, 
and had been a great traveller, so that his 
opinion was sought on contested points where 
his knowledge could be used. 

The ladies were so interested in rumours of 
wonderful oratorical and argumentative pow- 
ers displayed in the debates on vital and 
burning questions of the day, affecting closely 
our modern life, that they begged me often to 
give them a synopsis of what they might 
freely be favored with. 

“ Anything not debarred from outside cir- 
culation, by rules of the smoking-room,” Mrs. 
Mitchell said, with a smile. 


42 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


“What was the argument about today?” 
Miss Mitchell would ask, and I would answer; 
“A great variety of things were discussed in 
a somewhat discursive way, and graphic illus- 
trations abounded, but the main interest 
centered upon combinations of capital. I have 
forgotten, however, all except what the phil- 
osopher said. 

“What did he say?” asked Miss Mitchell, 
“for though I have never been able to com- 
bine much myself, I do not want to lose any 
ol these gems of thought. Why would it 
not be a good idea to get the philosopher to 
arrange his ideas in writing and then read us 
a paper, for our closing entertainment on the 
steamer?” 

Miss Mitchell’s plan took at once with the 
passengers, and although the philosopher 
shook his head reproachfully at her as mainly 
responsible, he was finally prevailed upon to 
favor us with the following production, for 
our edification and posterity’s, as we insisted. 

On board S. S. “Prosaic,” 
What the smoking-room philosopher says. 

COMBINATIONS OF CAPITAL 
may be blessings, if not always unmixed 
ones. Railroads, manufactories, banks and 
department stores, can save much expense 
by absorbing smaller concerns, and may ben- 
efit their customers in lower prices or in- 
creased facilities, if managed to that end by 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


43 


honorable men. Their danger is in the op- 
portunity offered to promoters and syndicates 
of over-capitalization in stock or bonds, 
whereby the outside investor pays on a fic- 
titious valuation, losing finally, unless the 
charge is carried forward in an increased 
price to the customer or passenger. 

MUNICIPAL OWNERSHIP. 

State ownership, is a cure tor that, says my 
student friend from his corner I doubt it, 
nor will that remedy be applied generally un- 
less the syndicates grow still more greedy and 
grasping. There must be much better econ- 
omy practiced by our municipalities, and far 
more wisdom exercised in their business 
management, before lighting, street car serv- 
ice, telephoning, etc., shall be relinquished 
to them, and a still greater number of office 
holders created; with all which that means in 
political intrenchment of party. 

When cities shall have responsibility placed 
squarely upon the executive, with heads of 
departments appointed by him under civil 
service rules; the corporations called semi- 
public may readily be forced to perform their 
duties if two things are adhered to honorably 
by each. First, no franchise should be given, 
or renewed, for a longer term than one year. 
Second, no company givinggood and reason- 
able service, should be disturbed in its just 
rights or have adequate cause for seeking to 
bind the city to its own duty, for a term of 


44 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


years. Corporations could then have no ex- 
cuse for their contention that the fickleness 
and demagoguery of changing municipalities, 
make a long franchise necessary before out- 
lays are made or securities floated. Cities 
and these corporations must meet each other 
more honestly on both sides. City officials 
must be found also, that would scorn to take 
a pass or place themselves under any obliga- 
tion whatsoever. 

taxes — 

the solemn man remarks, are as sure as death, 
and I am glad that he is blessed with enough 
worldly goods to feel that it is a grave mat- 
ter. There is an unlikeness, however, in the 
fact that while death comes once to all, taxes 
come yearly to most. I agree with you that 
they are not equitable on the personal prop- 
erty side, but I shall not attempt to estimate 
how much the rate would be reduced if every 
one would make the return directed by law. 
People do not and will not make returns, and 
the burden is laid most unequally in conse- 
quence. That is why there seems some 
reason in the contention of many, that only 
real estate should be taxed, simplifying the 
assessors’ work and doing no injustice to 
holders of land, as rents would accommodate 
themselves to the new basis. It would op- 
erate against holding out large tracts of un- 
improved lands for speculation merely. It 
might have a tendency to keep as real cit- 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


45 


izens that increasing class who are actually 
taxed elsewhere, though practically denizens 
of the city. Industrial enterprises would 
favor such a city, and there would be no 
need then of making questionable contracts 
for the benefit of a few favored concerns, for 
all would be treated alike. If you would 
keep taxes low, you must not only apply a 
healthy economy (not parsimony)^ all along 
the line of appropriations for public works, 
but also in the matter of salaries. Instead of 
multiplying offices and quoting the precedent 
of other cities as a reason for raising salaries, 
keep the number down to the necessary ones, 
and set an example of only proper and rea- 
sonable payments to officers. 

tariffs — 

have enough interest to our taciturn neigh- 
bour, for him to venture an inquiry as to their 
utility or necessity, even. I have pretty strong 
convictions on that subject — yes, and on 
most others, as the bumptious young man has 
just whispered audibly. 

The main prop of the tariff has always 
been that “infant industry” idea, and its ne- 
cessity for our material prosperity, with a 
direful picture presented of the pauper labor 
of Europe destroying the dignity of our own. 
It would seem to the unbiassed mind a pretty 
good idea for nations, like individuals, to do 
that which they are best fitted for. It cer- 
tainly would be a sound basis to start upon, 


46 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


and if it kept nations inter-dependent, would 
perhaps so far make for peace between them. 

There is a little inconsistency, apparently, 
in free-born, self-reliant Americans, pleading 
the baby act with the government for their 
especial enterprise, and then employing the 
cheapest labor possible, the kind that they 
called such a menace. Those who do so, 

should be the last instead of the first to com- 

% 

plain when these men seek an early vote. A 
tariff for revenue we must have for the pres- 
ent, but the protection should be taken out of 
it. The word sounds queerly and poorly by 
the side of our profession of independence, 
equality before the law, freedom in every- 
thing — but trade. Still, law is law. and my 
protection friends must not be so inconsis- 
tent as to grumble at its personal bearing on 
their European purchases. That is a small 
hardship to bear for a great principle, and it is 
always sad to see a protectionist wince as he 
pays, sadder still to see him wriggle in at- 
tempted evasion. 

PUSHING TRADE — 

is a necessity of modern conditions, the drum- 
mer asserts, as he enters, flushed with his 
victory at shovel board. That was pushing 
to good effect, and it is to be hoped may be 
an augury of what is soon to befall him as he 
displays his goods in foreign climes. 

Yes, conditions have changed, and you do 
not wait for the country customer to come in 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


47 


and select his wares. That old leisurely 
method has departed, and you must go to 
him — ahead of the other man, too, if possible. 
There is a great deal of pushing that is right 
and proper, even vital, if trade is to be held. 
These methods are so evident that they need 
no description ; but there are other ways that 
hurt trade just as surely in the long run. 
These vary from the hocus-pocus to the 
vicious, and might be summarized as lottery 
methods; for the same impression is sought 
to be given by all, however they masquerade. 
Something for nothing, or very nearly that, is 
always implied. 

The coupon device, trading stamps, and 
whole kindred brood, are little better than the 
fake or fire sales, mock auctions, etc., which 
all condemn. Attempts to stimulate trade in 
these ways, of course cannot be called legiti- 
mate pushing. It is questionable to many 
whether the instalment plan is any real ben- 
efit. It tempts to overtrading, using the al- 
luring bait of home comforts easily secured, 
when in a majority of cases it would have 
been better to remain content with a few 
things until cash was in hand to buy others. 

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS. 

The sleepy man tells me that he has earned 
repose, as this is his first real vacation; some- 
thing that he has looked forward to with 
longing for years. He admits, however, that 
there has not come quite that full measure of 


48 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


content, which he confidently hoped for. The 
desired haven is reached with some anticipa- 
tions wrecked. 

He tells me further, that in his career, 
“ Business was business straight through and 
all the time,” but 1 fear this poor pride of his is 
tottering towards its fall, as he sees how little 
development he allowed himself outside of 
narrow trade channels. He was bound too 
closely to routine, and feels now the want of 
a common knowledge of art, books, his fellow 
men even, outside of the narrow groove where 
he met them. Study to cure this, and do not 
admit it is too late without a fair trial. 

An energetic business man, going to seed 
the minute his own special avenue of effort 
closes, has been too common a sight. The 
wiser man is he, who, while he masters his 
business, is not mastered by it, but keeps 
along always some side interests that refresh 
him, as a change from the toil for his suste- 
nance and material well-being. 

FANCY FARMING — 

is a good resource for a retired man of business, 
says the benevolent gentleman, as he beams 
over his spectacles. Yes, if you can afford 
it, and really like to raise fruit and vegetables 
for presentation purposes; only don’t flatter 
yourself that you are really farming, while 
you are amusing yourself and neighbors in 
your expensive trifling. The demoralizing 
effect must be considered, too, on those about 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


49 


you, when the really hard working farmers 
see you sinking money and judgment in sub- 
soil ploughing, elaborate draining, fancy stock, 
expensive buildings and high-priced labor. 
It would be a grand object-lesson if just one 
business man should appear, who could show 
that method and care might win here as well 
as they had in his former pursuit. 

SOCIETY. 

My pensive friend quotes well when he says, 
‘'That much abused word, society;” and his 
reflective temperament may yet develop him 
into a philosopher, too, let us hope. 

Society is a much abused word, and some 
of the doings, climbing, slipping, sliding, 
trimming, cringing and fawning, excite our 
pity and contempt, when we consider them 
as belonging to it. But while we smile or 
grieve at these follies or heart-burnings, and 
deride much miserable aping of unworthy 
models, let us not call this society. Rather 
let us remember, that like religion and all 
other good things, this has its counterfeit. 
We are not considering what is sometimes 
called society, but what is really so in its best 
sense, which must be a worthy thing. 

The best society, then, is that which allows 
to its members full liberty to follow out honest 
convictions, not pressing them hardly upon 
others, nor hiding or stifling them. 

A proper self-respect counts for a great 
deal here, as elsewhere, something which 


50 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


will never be confounded with overweening 
self-conceit. You cannot manufacture friend- 
ships, and those which come to you naturally 
will be the most lasting. Whether your circle 
is large or small, it will be of the best quality 
possible when the truest. Consideration for 
others’ feelings is the keynote to really good 
society — a desire to judge them fairly in con- 
struing both acts and words. This means 
nothing inconsistent with your honor, dignity 
or judgment. 

THE STAGE — 

at present, seems in a state of decadence, I 
hear the histrionic member of our group de- 
clare. It must be admitted that your great 
master would be a little perturbed to see the 
vacuous and flabby play alternate with the 
blood and thunder variety, for one kind of 
audience — while the more cultured are regaled 
with representations of so called modern lile, 
in which vicious situations are either thinly 
and suggestively veiled or openly flaunted. It 
is hardly complimentary to the good taste of 
an audience, that managers should feed them 
with such pabulum. 

It is certainly a poor diet for our young 
people to partake of in their recreative hours, 
and lacks utterly that delightful quality of 
freshness, sweetness and sparkle, which the 
best plays give us in true pictures of home and 
social life, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


51 


LIBERAL EDUCATION — 

is a good corrective, as you well say, professor, 
in acting as a guard to some degree against 
shallow or perverted views oi life. But has 
it ever occurred to you that many are paying 
too much for it ? They seem to think that 
such a patent is conferred in the mere fact of 
a college course, that it is worth any sacrifice. 
Not any sacrifice, my friend. Not the slavery 
or essential discomfort of your relatives, that 
you may acquire or shine; not borrowing 
heavily and forgetting to repay; not even en- 
dangering your own health by unwonted and 
unwarrantable efforts to replenish your slender 
purse. A college education, like a great many 
other things, is good for some people to have, 
if rightly secured. 

Libraries are a universal good, you declare, 
at least free ones for the people. Let us see 
about that. It is easy for us to say complac- 
ently to each other, as library after library is 
given by our rich men ; “ They ought to, they 
can afford it.” But can we afford it? Can 
we afford to take all and do nothing ourselves ? 

I am not sure but all such gifts would be 
wiser ones, if conditioned on the people doing 
something themselves to show their desire to 
help, to even sacrifice a little for so good a 
cause. A nickel a month, say, as partners 
in it. 

PATRIOTISM. 

“ The last refuge of a scoundrel ;” you quote, 


52 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


my clerical friend, not approvingly I presume, 
reverend sir, but to “start me,” as the bump- 
tious youth would observe. 

My idea of patriotism ought not to require 
a multiplicity of words to define or set forth 
clearly. 

Some indeed are so brief in their interpreta- 
tion of the word as to give it in one great 
howl — “Our country, right or wrong!” 

Others in well-rounded periods recall proud 
events in our history, review our march in 
material growth, our wonderful inventive fac- 
ulty, and close with the modest claim that we 
are greater, richer, braver, wiser, better every 
way, than any other nation past, present, 
or to come. 

My ideal of a true patriot is one whose 
love of country lies too deep to make noisy 
protestation of it. Nor will he villify other 
nations to magnify his own; but holding fast 
to the best traditions of his beloved land, seek 
ever to gain from other countries those things 
in which they clearly surpass us. If he differs , 
with most of his countrymen on a question of 
policy, honestly believing that his country’s 
honor forbids his joining in their judgment, 
he will not let sneer of being impracticable, 
visionary or weak, affect him, nor taunt of 
traitor move him. If he loves his country well 
enough to serve her thus, as well as with his 
arm in a just conflict, then he is a patriot, 
when it costs something to be one. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


53 


“ Patient passengers of the good ship ‘ Pro- 
saic/ upon whom I have presumed to inflict 
these views, (only however, after your urgent 
solicitations,) I congratulate you that I have at 
length reached a conclusion. You might in- 
deed have suffered still further, for there are 
a host of subjects discussed and sometimes 
illuminated in the smoking-room, that I have 
not touched upon — such burning questions as 
prohibition, woman’s rights, etc. Consider 
yourself released, however, after one little 
tribute for my own amusement. Will not the 
ladies kindly distribute these labels, attaching 
in their best judgment to the pensive, benev- 
olent, bumptious, sleepy, etc., subjects, that 
1 may learn what their discernment is good 
for!” 

This was an unexpected turning of the 
tables, and while the ladies were anxious to 
show their acuteness, there was a faint mur- 
mur of protest from some of the habituds of the 
smoking-room, with appealing glances to the 
philosopher. He was inexorable, however, 
declaring that he had “done his turn,” and 
meant now to enjoy the writhings of the 
victims as they were literally “smoked out.” 

“ This is the second penalty for insisting on 
importing a smoking-room philosopher into a 
salon!” he said, in rich enjoyment of ludi- 
crous episodes that followed the attempt to 
place labels properly. 

Notwithstanding the semi-apology of the 


54 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


philosopher for inflicting so much concentrated 
wisdom upon us in one evening, we gave him 
a hearty vote of thanks; and as the steamer 
was due to arrive early the next day, there 
was a general hand-shaking and leave-taking, 
after patriotic songs had been sung. 

The Mitchells and I sat on deck after most 
of the others had retired, all of us a little sorry, 
I think, to leave the good ship that had borne 
us thus far in safety; the odd attachment so 
often felt toward an inanimate creation, that 
we strive to invest, somehow, with a person- 
ality. 

Miss Mitchell doubtless felt a subdued and 
solemn joy in the assured meeting with her 
lover, if her pensive air was any indication. 
She roused herself finally, and said with a 
pretty, deprecatory smile — that only veiled her 
utter happiness in anticipation of the mor- 
row — “1 have been very poor company I fear, 
Mr. Faulconer, for the last half hour; but after 
all it is complimentary to you, for it is with 
our best friends that we can afford to sit 
silently sometimes.” 

“ I appreciate the compliment more than I 
can tell you,” I answered, “and it has been 
enough for me to see you so thoroughly happy, 
as I know you have a right to be.” 

“1 have,” she answered slowly, and hesi- 
tating a moment, she added, “1 can wish you 
no greater joy, Mr. Faulconer, than a likje 
happiness; and don’t forget,” she concluded, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


55 


with a merry sparkle in her eye, where some- 
thing else bright still shone, “that I have 
promised to help you if I can!” 

She now followed her mother, who had left 
but a few moments before, and I lingered to 
finish a fond dream of my own. Shall 1 con- 
fess it? Philippa, my unseen cousin, had 
taken possession of me as fully as if 1 had the 
right to think of her thus ardently and fondly. 
If so deeply in love with an unseen, unknown, 
what would be my fate when 1 saw her? 
Should I ever? Life is full of changes, as I 
knew too well. 


CHAPTER V. 

AUCKLAND. 

There could not have been a finer morning, 
than that which greeted our entrance to Auck- 
land harbor, and there are few fairer or grander 
scenes than North Island gives to the traveller; 
though the details of that were not known to 
me until later. 

Before I left New Zealand, I had seen Mount 
Ruapahu’s snow-clad summit, towering 9,000 
feet above the sea, the evergreen forests, fern 
clad ranges and beautiful dales, the wonderful 
geysers, and what remained of the famed pink 
terraces. 

My present interest, however, was confined 
to Auckland and its environs, which contained, 

I was told, some 30,000 persons. But only 
one Philippa! 

Mr. Clearfield was already aboard when I 
came on deck, and as the first greetings were 
over between him and the Mitchells, there 
was time for my introduction, in one of the 
intervals of conversation that even lover’s 
confidences occasionally afford. I knew that 
Mr. Clearfield’s judgment was excellent so far 
as knowing where to seek his own happiness, 
but I was more interested to ascertain whether 
Miss Mitchell had been equally wise ; for if 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


57 


ever woman deserved one who would truly 
cherish her, she did. 

Her decision, I was obliged to confess to 
myself, had been the wise one I hoped, for he 
was so frank and manly in his ways, and 
showed the gentleman so thoroughly, that 
from the moment my eyes met his, I knew 
their steady and true response to mine meant 
that Miss Mitchell was in safe hands — the 
right ones. 

“The verdict is that I will do!” said Mr. 
Clearfield, with a merry glance toward Miss 
Mitchell; “for I am sure I saw a shade of 
care pass from Mr. Faulconer’s brow, and I 
thought I heard a sigh of relief at a responsi- 
bility lifted from his shoulders. It must have 
been no slight one for Grace is still young 
and unformed; though she is right in her im- 
pulses. Don’t you think so ?” 

I replied that in the main impulse which 
interested him, she was right, I had now no 
doubt; but that the responsibility had been 
felt so lightly by me, that I was heartily sorry 
it was over. 

“Really, Tom, 1 do not know what we 
should have done without Mr. Faulconer,’* 
said Miss Mitchell. “You ought to be very 
grateful that we fell into the hands of such a 
serious-minded escort. It is so unusual to see 
such gravity and discretion in young men 
nowadays, that I have made a special note of 
it. Indeed, I have formed a theory — which 


58 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


tortures shall not make me disclose at pres- 
ent — as to Mr. Faulconer’s real aims in life. 
I assure you this much, that they are lofty, 
for they have enabled him to resist success- 
fully, the advances of one very pretty young 
widow, and the guileless artifices of a mother 
and two charming daughters!’’ 

“ I am a little uncertain,” I replied, “about 
some slight attentions I received from the 
widow, though they may not have been so 
pointed as you imagine; but in justice to those 
young ladies, they were so coldly indifferent 
that it would forever chill in me any belief 
in my power to please, if I had not heard one 
of them say, just now, ‘ Mr. Faulconer wasn't 
engaged to her, after allj’” 

“ There, Grace!” laughed Mr. Clearfield, and 
then — gravely turning toward her — “ but why 
should they have thought it possible ?” 

Miss Mitchell disdained to answer such a 
personal question, and we all disembarked 
now, parting with the promise from me, 
that I would call on them soon at their country 
home. Mr. Clearfield and Miss Mitchell would 
not be married for a fortnight, and meanwhile 
the ladies would stay at Doctor Pell’s, a 
brother of Mrs. Mitchell, and next neighbor 
to Mr. Clearfield. 

Left now to my own devices, the first thing, 
evidently, to do, was to call on Mrs. Graham; 
in whose care Philippa certainly was three 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


59 


years before, and where presumably she would 
still be found. 

I readily discovered the house where she 
had lived, a modest but pleasantly situated, 
dwelling in the suburbs; but here 1 met my 
first disappointment, in the information that 
Mrs. Graham had removed a year since to 
Sydney; having been called thence by the 
death of her only brother, who had left a fam- 
ily of motherless children. Further inquiry 
developed the fact that “the young lady” did 
not go with her, as Mrs. Graham wisely de- 
cided that Philippa would hardly feel at home 
in such a group of sturdy youngsters; for the 
children were mostly boys. Just what ar- 
rangements had been made for her, I could not 
learn from the somewhat indefinite woman, 
except that she believed she was teaching in 
a physician’s family in the country somewhere. 

So Philippa had started upon her modest 
career in life, and “ ower young,” I thought it; 
with a strong desire within me to care for and 
shelter her myself, which may have been 
commendable, if not entirely unselfish. 

My disappointment, at finding the bird 
flown, soon gave way to a renewed determi- 
nation that I would find her if every farm in 
New Zealand had to be visited. I reflected 
that she must, however, almost surely be on 
the same island as Auckland, and though that 
meant an immense area, the thought that we 
were at least on the same soil, brought a new 


60 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


and strange delight. We might be but a few 
miles apart! There was always the chance 
that her occupation was near Auckland, which 
she might occasionally visit for shopping, or 
to see friends. 

While I was laying out my campaign, 
studying maps, and tracing roads, etc., I found 
time to saunter through the streets and park, 
on the slender chance that I might meet her 
on such a visit to the city, and the slenderer 
hope that I should know her by the re- 
semblance to her grandmother’s picture. I 
thought I could trace a little likeness between 
that and Philippa’s five year old photograph, 
and was leaning more and more to Mrs. 
Brown’s belief, as time progressed. It was 
too comforting a hope to cast away. There 
was one possible clue to my cousin’s where- 
abouts in that idea, indefinitely as it had been 
stated, of her teaching in a physician’s family. 
I proceeded to make a list of all the physi- 
cians whose names I could find by diligent 
research (anywhere within thirty miles of 
Auckland) and was surprised to find that so 
many doctors were necessary in such a healthy 
community as this was reputed to be. 

After making an alphabetical list of these, 
I arranged another by locality, so that 1 could 
call upon all without too much retracing of 
steps. 

While sitting in the park (or Botanical Gar- 
den, more strictly speaking), one day, looking 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


61 


over my lists, it flashed across my mind that 
there was a familiar name in Dr. Pell; for 
that certainly was where Mrs. Mitchell and 
her daughter had gone. How if Philippa 
should be in that very household! A mo- 
ment’s reflection showed how unlikely this 
was, for I knew Miss Mitchell well enough to 
be sure that she would have quickly informed 
me if it had been so. That hope must be re- 
jected, and 1 now went carefully over my 
papers, selecting a long route for the first 
day’s travel, and deciding to start on the very 
next morning. 

It was full time, but I had wasted none as 
yet, for the preparation had been careful 
and thorough in study of maps and plans 
of the adjacent country, which would save 
many a mile of fruitless travel. 

I put my papers away, lit a cigar, and as 
immediate action was impossible, allowed 
myself the luxury of a few minutes retro- 
spect and reverie. I reviewed the time since 
my father’s death, which seemed in the dis- 
tant past now, so much had transpired in 
the really short interval. The more I thought 
of my father’s words the more sure I became 
that when he counselled me to seek out my 
cousin, much more was in his mind than 
what came from his lips. Certainly if he had 
it near his heart that I should find my happi- 
ness beside my cousin, I was now as strongly 


62 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


of that way of thinking as a man well could 
be who had yet to see the lady of his love. 

Her picture should not count, of course, 
although, as I have said, I had become a 
convert to Mrs. Brown’s view, as to the resem- 
blance to her beautiful grandmother. If so, I 
would try and sketch Philippa. She should be 
now of slight, but well placed and poised fig- 
ure, hair and eyes of brown, the latter that rare 
kind which dance merrily, and yet have a 
melting quality for the fortunate one who 
can discover it. Her smile must be one of 
her greatest charms, so frank and sunny, 
sparkling and sweet. Surely I should know 
her by her smile and eyes. 

“ Ask me not why I should love her, 

Look upon these soulful eyes! 

Look while mirth or feeling move her, 

And see there how sweetly rise 
Thoughts gay and gentle from ” 

“How did you know mv favorite seat !” 
exclaimed a voice at my side; too sweet a 
voice to so salute a stranger. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PHILIPPA. 

The young girl, for she was not much more, 
whose question came so suddenly to my ears, 
had not addressed her remark to me. She 
could not see that the seat was occupied until 
the bush had been passed that hid my end of 
it. The big St. Bernard, however, who had 
preceded her and stretched himself comfort- 
ably across the path, was in full view before 
she reached the seat. He had evidently made 
up his mind that where his mistress had stop- 
ped before, she would surely tarry again. 
Dogs’ memories are good. 

The girl, who paused a moment before me, 
was slight, and fair even beyond my dreams, 
with brown eyes, and hair of the same color; 
but the smile was resolutely kept back, and a 
trace of vexation with herself showed in a 
little flush and pretty frown, while deciding 
whether to excuse herself, or take for granted 
that I would understand how incapable she 
was of addressing any but her dog, thus. 

I arose too quickly for her to pass, and said, 
“Your dog is quite right, I have monopo- 
lized this seat too long, and it is only fair that 
you give him a rest, while you occupy the 
place which he has sagaciously chosen as 
your favorite one.” 


64 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


She seemed pleased that 1 had left the mat- 
ter where it belonged, with the dog, and that I 
did not presume to stay even at the other end 
of the seat; for she smiled her thanks, and 
dismissed me with as graceful a bow as her 
grandmother could have made. Yes, my 
heart had told me, in one great throb, that 
this must be Philippa! 

1 liked her dismissal much better than if 
she had insisted on retiring herself, for she 
took me simply at my word; that I had long 
been there — and it was her favorite seat, and 
she was a little tired. 

I had not the slightest intention of leaving 
her, however, before one question was ans- 
wered, which 1 had been trying to frame ere 
the smile left her face. 

“It is barely possible,” I said, “that we 
are not strangers, after all, or ought not to 
be. May I ask if you are Miss Faulconer? If 
so, I assure you I have much to tell that con- 
cerns you deeply. My name is Philip Faul- 
coner.” 

She seemed much surprised and a little 
startled at this speech, with a puzzled, almost 
pathetic look in her eyes, as if she were try- 
ing to remember faces that were near her in 
earliest childhood. Surely this was Philippa; 
my Philippa, if God granted me life long 
enough to win her by showing the depth 
of my heart’s love and constancy. 

She answered, and how sweet the words 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


65 


were to me! “My name is Philippa Faul- 
coner, but I know little of my family. I can 
but just remember my father, and nothing of 
my mother. I believe no near relatives are 
left to me now.” 

As she concluded this answer to my ques- 
tion, I thought that if I were my father, 
instead of my father’s son, I would clasp this 
poor child — so strangely alone and bereft of 
kindred — straight to my heart. Friends are 
much, but the old words “kith and kin” 
mean something closer and dearer yet. When 
this is not so I pity the one forced to admit it. 

What I said in answer to my cousin was 
simply this: “If you will allow me to sit by 
you for a while, I will tell you, briefly, what 
I have to say. I am your cousin. It matters 
not now of what degree, but we are both 
Faulconers, you see — Philip and Philippa; and 
almost the last who bear the name, so we 
ought all the more to be good friends. 
Like yourself, I am bereft of parents, though 
I lost mine much later in life; my father hav- 
ing died last year. He was a man you would 
have loved and confided in; for he always in- 
spired trust, by his simple and direct ways 
and kindness of heart. He told me, a little 
before he died, to seek you, and bear his love 
to you; for his heart had gone out to the little 
maid, as he called you, so far removed from 
home and kindred. He wished me to put you 
in possession of the old Lodge of your ances- 


66 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


tors (and mine) at Faulconridge, with its 
acre of ground, and an income of ^200 for 
your modest maintenance there. He felt 
assured that you would take these slight gifts 
to please him, your kinsman, if no more; and 
it was his great hope that ,dear as your friends 
here might be to you, the feeling of home — 
the place where you were born, and where 
your father and mother lie buried — would 
prove strong enough to draw you there. Have 
you any remembrance of the Lodge? It was 
the cradle of our race, and stood quite removed 
from the mansion, which was burned ere you 
can recollect.” 

“ I can just remember the old Lodge,” she 
answered, “and my fathers funeral from it; 
and still more dimly the time, a few weeks 
before, when I was carried to his bedside. 
It has always seemed to me as if he said, ‘ Poor 
little Philippa, God help and care for you;’ 
but perhaps that was only a child’s thought 
later, of what he might have said, or a dream — 
she added, sadly. 

“Would you like to know how you looked 
at that time ?” I asked, and showed her the 
five year old picture that I always carried with 
me. She was a picture herself of surprised 
delight, not for the portrait itself, but because 
of its linking her closer to her father; the one 
little remembrance that she had treasured to 
comfort many lonely hours. 

“You may keep it,” I said, “I brought it 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


67 


out for you. Here is another picture that en- 
abled me to find you, or to know you, when 
1 was wonderingly asked the question about 
this seat!” 

My cousin’s new wonder about the second 
picture, prevented her noticing this raillery, 
except by a smile; and I now placed in her 
hand the photograph of her grandmother as 
she looked at sixteen. 

“Do 1 look like that!” exclaimed Philippa, 
coloring slightly, from a little tinge, perhaps, 
of new-born pride in the womanhood that 
began to show forth its power in the picture. 

“Where did you get it, Mr. Faulconer; 
and whose face is it, please ?” 

“That is your grandmother at sixteen, 
which is about your present age, I believe. 
I secured it at Faulconridge just before I left, 
as a possible means of identifying you. I 
will keep this until I have one of your own. 

Mrs. Brown, the tenant at the Lodge, de- 
clared her belief, which has come strangely 
true, that you would surely look like your 
grandmother; and although I can see differ- 
ences that I will not comment upon now, this 
picture has served a good purpose, for I have 
you clearly identified. You very properly call 
me Mr. Faulconer, as so much older, but I will 
call, you Philippa, if you do not object. We 
Faulconers go about things very methodically, 
and we are direct if we are anything; so I 
will now hand you document number three — 


68 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


the object of all being the same — to affect 
your mind or touch your heart so deeply about 
your early home that you will be willing to 
leave here, even if it seems hard at first to 
part from friends that are tried and true.” 

Philippa seemed to have cause for fresh 
wonder in seeing, gradually, how she had been 
planned for in so many ways by her new- 
found cousin, and took the letter from Mrs. 
Brown, that I now handed her; reading it 
through twice ere she laid it on her lap, and 
looked at me with eyes that were a little 
dimmed. 

“I am sure she is a good and kind woman; 
you have all been very kind to think and 
do so much for me — your father, yourself, 
and Mrs. Brown. 1 do not know how 1 
may decide; but I never can forget it my life 
through. It seems so strange that 1 should 
have come into this garden a half hour ago, 
only, and find a new life opened to me. I 
must go soon, to meet my friends, but tell me 
first, what you would have done to find me 
if you had not, or I had not, come to this seat ?” 

“I should have sought you, Philippa,” I 
said — in great comfort at the first use of her 
name — “at every doctor’s within a large cir- 
cuit of Auckland, having heard that you were 
probably teaching in a physician’s family in 
the country — slightly indefinite, it is true. I 
might have commenced with Dr. Pell, where 
two of my fellow passengers are stopping, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


69 


Mrs. Mitchell and her daughter; but I knew 
you could not be there, or Miss Mitchell 
would have written me. Still I might have 
learned of him, possibly, the address of the 
doctor whose child you were teaching. A 
mere chance, of course.” 

“You would have found me there!” said 
Philippa, delightedly. “ The very thing you 
wouldn’t really have expected. But the other 
way was the best,” she added reflectively; to 
which I heartily assented. 

“As you will want to call on your friends, 
Mr. Faulconer, why not come with me to meet 
their carriage ? 1 have been in town some 
days, and that accounts for Miss Mitchell not 
seeing me, nor was there any special reason 
why she should hear me mentioned.” 

“But what am I to do, Philippa, with my 
plans and maps, and lists of doctors, and 
routes of march to their homes? Do you 
think Dr. Pell would like the collection ?” 

“You might try him!” said she, gleefully 
as a child. We were just starting, when 
Philippa raised her little hand, and drew my 
attention to a robin red breast, hopping toward 
us the more cautiously at seeing her in un- 
wonted company. “This is one of the old 
friends who would miss me if I went with 
you to England,” she said very gently, so as 
not to disturb him, as she scattered a few 
crumbs, regarding him wistfully the while. 
She spoke so innocently and trustingly of the 


70 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


possibility of a return in my care, that I could 
not refrain from answering, “ This robin, 
Philippa, must be the very one that I fed on 
the window seat of the old tower, wondering 
as I did so, whether you might not some day 
do likewise. I believe he has brought a mes- 
sage for you, imploring your return to the 
ancestral home. Can you whisper ‘yes’ to 
him?” 1 did not give her time to answer, 
however, but continued. “Pardon me, my 
child, for asking your decision now, to that 
which you must take time to consider. Of 
course we know it cannot be the same robin !” 

“There is nothing to pardon,” said she. 
“I knew you really wished me to consider 
well; and believe me, Mr. Faulconer, I will 
try hard to decide rightly. It was a pretty 
idea of yours!” she added, with a smile. 

We found the carriage awaiting -Philippa, 
with Mr. Clearfield and Miss Mitchell in it. 
He had been deputed, it seemed, to drop the 
ladies at Dr. Pell’s, on the way to his own 
home. 

To say that amazement o’ercast Miss Mitch- 
ell’s face, as we approached, in happy con- 
verse, would faintly express it. Her brow 
was enthroned with wonder! 

“How, when, where, did you find your 
cousin, Mr. Faulconer!” she exclaimed. 

“An hour ago, in the Botanical Garden, by 
means of her picture,” I answered, “if you 
will allow me to reverse the order of your 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


71 


somewhat peremptory questions. Does she 
treat you in this autocratic fashion already, Mr. 
Clearfield, oris that reserved for your future ?” 

While Mr. Clearfield was explaining to me, 
Miss Mitchell had introduced herself to Phil- 
ippa, and was getting a circumstantial account 
of the whole matter from beginning to end. 

She now turned upon me again, with the 
charge that it was too bad to steal a march on 
her little plan, for she had only that afternoon 
heard of Philippa’s whereabouts, and had 
arranged to call at my hotel as they drove out. 

I was to have been taken into the carriage, 
and surprised with my cousin there. 

Miss Mitchell could not help commenting 
on my cousin’s calling me Mr. Faulconer; on 
which I turned and looked at her severely, 
saying that I preferred it. She remained quiet 
a moment, and then, looking at me rather 
mischievously, said, “I wonder why?” 

•'* Your cousin has some queer ideas, Phil- 
ippa, and I have formed a theory about him, 
that I shall some day disclose. Not now, 
however, for he has too sadly disarranged my 
plans, to receive such a reward.” 

Mr. Clearfield and Miss Mitchell had the front 
seat after we were fairly started, although the 
latter very kindly offered to sit with Philippa, 
if I preferred to be in front! 

I cannot tell what was said on that drive. 
Not much by me, I am sure; yet I felt that I 
had never known real happiness before. 


72 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Philippa was pensive and thoughtful, as if 
she had not yet got the matter quite clearly 
before her in all its bearings. 

As she was alighting at Dr. Pell’s, she said — 
as if we both had been thinking of the same 
thing and both knew it — “You feel willing 
to trust me to decide rightly, do you not ?” 

“I shall always trust you, Philippa,” I ans- 
wered. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A WEDDING. 

Dr. Pell welcomed me heartily, and insisted 
that I should be his guest for a few days, at 
least. 

The plans and lists that I had prepared for 
finding Philippa, amused him very much; and 
he declared he should value them highly, as 
guides in his occasional visits to brother phy- 
sicians. I think, too, that he liked to have 
them as mementoes of Philippa, whose de- 
parture he began to see foreshadowed. 

The doctor and his wife had been the truest 
and kindest of friends to her, even before she 
had come to them. They had been well 
acquainted with her aunt, and when the old 
lady died were instrumental in seeing her niece 
well placed with Mrs. Graham. Upon the 
removal of the latter to Sydney, they suggested 
to Philippa a residence with them, and within 
a few weeks had yielded to her wish that she 
might teach their child, and thus support 
herself. They respected her desire for inde- 
pendence, even in dealing with the best and 
dearest friends she had known. 

Her aunt had left to Philippa, all she pos- 
sessed, a small amount, perhaps ,£1,000; of 
which the doctor was trustee until she came 
of age. Mrs. Graham and Dr. Pell had both 


74 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


carried out the expressed views of the aunt, 
regarding her niece, following as nearly as 
could be, the rules she had laid down, which, 
if old-fashioned, were truly sensible. Her 
education war. to include not only a thorough 
groundwork in the high school course, but 
also a plan for reading the best authors; 
sketched out to some degree by her aunt, and 
showing much wisdom in selection. She had 
not omitted a generous allowance of fiction, 
which the good woman keenly appreciated. 

Philippa was, in consequence, remarkably 
well read, and her year with Doctor Pell’s 
family had been of great advantage in the 
discussion of books and affairs; for the doctor 
kept thoroughly alive to current events, and 
had many interests besides his profession, 
thus finding a relief from its arduous cares. 
Another thing insisted on by my cousin’s aunt, 
was a thorough knowledge of housekeeping, 
marketing, and keeping of accounts. 

These things had been necessary in their 
restricted style of living, but whether that was 
a continued necessity or not, she maintained 
that it was a great advantage to know how 
money should be used to get the best results, 
whether expended for essentials or luxuries. 

The doctor had his ideas also, as to physical 
exercise particularly; deeming it almost as 
necessary that women should ride and swim, 
as men. He had found so good a pupil in 
Philippa, that in the past year she had become 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


75 


an excellent swimmer, and fearless rider of 
any of his horses or Mr. Clearfield’s. These 
had been tenets of my father also, who early 
taught me to swim, ride, shoot, and sail a 
boat. I found my cousin could pull a very 
good oar, too, and made a mental note as to 
possible rides and rows with her in a not very 
remote future. 

As to lighter accomplishments, she only 
admitted that she could play the piano passa- 
bly, but her singing 1 soon learned was a 
delight to all fortunate enough to hear her. 
She would not dance, though I am sure she 
would have done it well, for her walking was 
grace itself. She did not analyze her objec- 
tion, but though no prude, and with manners 
most charming and unaffected, 1 believe the 
real reason, if she could have found it, was 
the familiarity implied in dancing; though she 
was well aware that this was not supposed to 
be presumed upon in good society. People, 
however frank, have their own reservations. 
This was hers, and though I enjoyed dancing, 
1 did not grieve much at this manifestation. 
For some reason I rather liked it; but — as 
Miss Mitchell would have said — why ? 

I could readily see that Philippa was most 
deeply attached to the doctor and his wife, 
and that this might operate, possibly, in af- 
fecting her decision as to my plans. He had 
brought her safely through a dangerous fever 
when she was a child, and had been a con- 


76 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


stant and trustworthy friend and adviser to 
her aunt, whose memory she revered. Both 
the doctor and Mrs. Pell had treated Philippa 
with much of the same kindness lavished upon 
their own child, while she had been one of 
their household. 

I had already learned that my cousin was 
unusually self-reliant and clear-headed; nature 
having endowed her with good sense, while 
a rational education had fostered the quality. 
She and her aunt had met some reverses and 
hardships, with resolution and serenity; one 
of the strong convictions of the latter being 
that any true gentlewoman would best evi- 
dence it by accepting inevitable economies 
without peevishness or repining. In this wav 
there might be avoided that disheartening and 
paralyzing worry, which so many invite by 
unprofitable comparison of lots. She never 
allowed herself — nor would have tolerated in 
Philippa — any such reflections; her favorite 
axiom being, that we have in this life little to 
do with measuring seeming good fortune in 
others, with our own condition. ‘ ‘ Many who 
seem to have all that goes to make life happy, 
may, for aught we know, have a disease, a 
sorrow, or disgrace, that would cause us end- 
less disquiet if we possessed it. Comparisons 
are as weak and silly as they are odious." 
These were amongst her sayings. 

I had resolved to possess my soul in patience, 
touching my father’s desire, knowing that the 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


77 


answer would come in due time; and feeling 
that 1 had presented the case as fairly and 
fully as I could, to Dr. Pell, as well as Philippa. 
If Miss Mitchell was consulted on my qualifi- 
cations and responsibility for the remaining 
part of my duty, 1 felt that I had a good friend 
for my cause, in spite of her undivulged theory 
about my aims in life. 

The waiting for a decision was not so long 
as I expected, for upon the second evening 
after our arrival, Dr. Pell asked me to come 
into his study, where I found Philippa, with 
some traces of agitation on the face that had 
become so dear to me. 

“Your cousin,” said the doctor, with a 
humorous twinkle in his eye, “ has come to 
a decision first, and then asked my opinion, 
instead of reversing the process! She has 
weighed the matter of your father’s proposal, 
his plan for her future, against some natural 
inclination to stay with old friends — almost 
the only ones she has known. She decides (I 
held my breath here!) to go; and it is wisely 
done, for it is the stirring call to her heart of 
kindred and of home. Your father has 
sounded it there. No other claim is quite 
that, Philippa, and you have done well, and 
characteristically, my child, in taking the 
matter up resolutely, at once, however hard it 
has been. Always go out bravely thus, 
and decisions will lose half their terrors. Next 


78 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


to your kindred you must always hold me and 
mine, for you know how we love you.” 

The doctor, by I know not what impulse, 
perhaps to hide his own emotion, then took 
a hand of each in his, and smilingly said; 
“Now that the situation is relieved, let fes- 
tivity reign ! I have long wished an excuse for 
a vacation, so we will take ten days in an 
excursion to the geysers and terraces, return- 
ing just before Grace’s marriage. We three 
will go, leaving my wife and Mrs. Mitchell to 
help Grace complete her preparations, if Mr. 
Clearfield does not interfere too much.” 

This suited me excellently, it is needless to 
say, and Philippa had always wanted to see 
the geysers, as the doctor knew; besides 
which it was plain enough that she wished to 
be close to him all she could before the final 
separation. I liked this loyalty to her early 
friend; nor could 1 wonder at it when I con- 
sidered what a sacrifice he was making in 
giving her up just now, when he was count- 
ing much on her influence with his own child. 

We four young people took our first row 
together that evening, and as it might be our 
last, we prolonged it well into the night. 

Miss Mitchell was in her usual good spirits, 
which wer^ much improved, she said, since 
the decision was finally made. She declared 
that it had been on all our minds like a cloud, 
and she was glad to see it dissipated. 

She and Philippa were now great friends, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


79 


and as it happened that my cousin had hereto- 
fore had no really close ones near her own age, 
she appreciated the companionship all the 
more. Miss Mitchell was a little inclined to 
revive her mischievous assaults upon me, in 
the guise of serious advice to us for our guid- 
ance on the long voyage together. 

She affected to consider me as very mature 
in years, if not in judgment, emphasizing the 
difference in age very distinctly, between 
Philippa and myself. She adopted a reflective 
tone about me, as if 1 had long been an inter- 
esting study; which I told her was personal 
in the extreme, embarrassing, and quite un- 
deserved by anything I had ever done. She 
looked very serious and said — “Perhaps this 
is my last opportunity, and I must not be 
diverted from my duty” — then partly turning 
to Philippa, she relapsed into her reflective 
tone. 

“I was interested in your cousin from the 
first moment of our acquaintance (no, Tom, 
even if you had not existed, I could not have 
encouraged him — we are very different). I 
have, as you know, a theory about him that 
may eventually explain some inconsistencies; 
but it seems to me as if there were tendencies 
that he should try to overcome before he is 
still older. I never like to see even a com- 
paratively young man, actually or affectedly 
odd, and he has some very peculiar notions. 
Did I hear Mr. Faulconer ask for instances ? 


80 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


No? Then I will give some, for his good. 1 
shall betray no confidences, for of course, only 
Tom and I have those. I remember once 
asking Mr. Faulconer what he considered good 
points in a woman, briefly put; and he replied 
promptly — good temper, common sense, hu- 
mor, neat working attire, punctuality and a 
love of big dogs! Here you see a lack of 
ideality. 1 told him that the ship’s name must 
have affected his imagination. He has ex- 
pressed a love for dancing, but when 1 
suggested that his young cousin should over- 
come her objection to it, he said it was a very 
proper reservation if she chose to make it. 
Here you see a lack of consistency. Then he 
actually prefers that his cousin should call him 
'Mr. Faulconer.’ This is formality personified, 
alas! I might go further, but I have already 
shown that he is formal, inconsistent and 
lacking in ideality. I want your cousin to 
have an ideal, Philippa, to be always consist- 
ent and never formal. Is it too much to ask of 
him ? He knows how much I wish it, but 
that makes no impression on him. Perhaps 
you will have better success if you care to try 
during the long voyage. You do not know 
how pleased 1 shall be, Mr. Faulconer, to hear 
of her success in such an effort!” 

I glanced at Miss Mitchell a moment to see 
if I could tell whether she suspected that 
Philippa was my ideal, and that I was con- 
sistency itself in my love for her; but the eyes 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


81 


that met mine were limpid depths of guile- 
lessness, and if the slightest trace of a smile 
for my encouragement, played furtively about 
her lips, I could not surely detect it. I de- 
cided to try and keep up the serious tone that 
1 had adopted for defence against her person- 
alities, which I would not allow were pleasant, 
much as I liked their usual bearing. 

“ Miss Mitchell,” I said, “I will agree to 
having been all you have said — and more; but 
1 am not myself, nor have I been since you 
were placed in some sort under my care in the 
steamer. The responsibility weighed heavily, 
and though recovering, I am not recovered. 

I saw, and Mr. Clearfield has since confirmed it, 
that you were young, unformed, enthusiastic, 
and idealistic in an extraordinary degree — 
consistently so! If in the performance of my 
duty as guide, philosopher and friend to you, 
and an effort to relieve your mother’s anxiety, 

I have so wearied myself as to still appear 
disquieted, irrelevant and inconsistent, I 
know you will forgive the weakness. 

For your kindness in thinking so deeply of 
mv welfare, 1 can never thank you sufficiently ; 
and if I ever should have wit enough vouch- 
safed me to guess out your theory of my life’s 
aims, so darkly hinted at, on and off the 
steamer, I promise to write you — that is, when 
the end is attained. Here is my hand on it.” 

She took my hand, and I thought her’s 
trembled a little, as well as her voice, when she 
said, “I am sure you will write.” 


82 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


She will be a treasure to her husband, 
thought 1, for when a woman, beloved and 
loving, has the unselfishness to turn from her 
own happiness to help another bound for the 
same haven, but beset with some difficulties, 
it is a good sign. I think she meant to get 
Philippa into the way of considering my per- 
sonality a little, with the hope that it might be 
a growing interest. If so, I heartily and de- 
voutly echoed her wish. 

We had been rowing against the current, 
but turning now, the oars were unshipped, 
and we drifted back in the moonlight, favored 
by breeze, as well as stream. 

Philippa and I were in the stern, the others 
close beside each other in the bow; none of 
us talking much now, but satisfied to drift 
on in half-dreaming content. If hands were 
clasped at one end of the boat it was 
not ours, where no such idea was supposed 
to bethought of, even. Later it shall be so! I 
whispered to myself; and not hands alone, but 
her heart close to mine, if Heaven blesses my 
endeavour. What was Philippa thinking 
about meanwhile ? Should I be the happier 
for knowing ? Hardly of me, or if at all, only 
passingly, as one, perhaps, who came but as 
a messenger; and who had brought sorrow 
rather than joy to her so far, in wresting her 
from loved ones. 

Was I right, after all, or simply selfish 
for my own happiness? My love for her 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


83 


rebelled at this question. 1 knew that it was 
true, with power to make her happy when my 
own deep affection had stirred in her a re- 
sponse. Would it could be now! I turned 
toward Philippa with a full heart, that I did 
not mean my face should yet disclose; though 
if she saw there a resolve to protect and 
shield her with my life while that might last, 

I cared not. She must have felt something of 
this, for she looked up at me for a moment, 
with a confidence shining forth from her eyes, 
(in her fair innocence,) that I have blessed her 
for ever since. 

Confidence, that plant of slow growth, had 
at least been that night given to me by Philippa. 

Confidence means trust, and trust is so 
good a thing, that it is love’s best foundation 
for steady happiness. 

Thus in the moonlight we floated on, and I 
almost wished it might have been forever; 
but we finally neared our landing place, 
moored the boat, and then took the path across 
the fields to the house ; if not quite so merry 
a party as we started, still with a great happi- 
ness over some of us, in spite of our soon 
parting, possibly forever. Marriage bells are 
merry ones, or should be, and they must so 
soon sound forth, that we decided by the next 
morning’s light to commence the preliminary 
festivities at once. So we made up a riding 
party, and galloped into Auckland, where Dr. 
Pell, Philippa and I, bade good bye to the fond 


84 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


lovers, after solemn assurances that we would 
be back to the wedding. We must, for Phil- 
ippa and I were to stand up with them or else 
break Miss Mitchell’s heart, as she declared ; 
though my cousin and I persisted that she had 
utterly parted with it already. 

I am not going to tell of the geysers, nor 
attempt to describe the departed glories 
of the pink terraces, for books that have al- 
ready been written have done it far better 
than I could hope to. Philippa’s enjoyment 
was so thorough, like a visit back to her 
childhood, that we were almost children with 
her, as we shared her delighted discoveries, 
throwing care to the winds for once. 

I do not know whether the doctor or 1 
would have appeared the most transported, 
to an onlooker. 

We were back in time for the wedding, a 
day ahead of it in fact. 

The morning was as bright as bride could 
hope for, the bride as fair as groom could 
dream of, and if the company at church was 
a small one, all there were good friends and 
hearty well wishers of the happy pair. 

They well deserved this affection and re- 
gard, and it was with more emotion than I 
had felt since my father’s death, that I bade 
them good-bye and God-speed. 

Miss Mitchell, or Mrs. Clearfield now, look- 
ing very sweet and womanly in her new dig- 
nity, tried bravely a little more raillery at my 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


85 


expense; but it ended in throwing her arms 
about Philippa, over whose shoulder she shot 
a tearful glance at me, with the old mischief 
underneath, at having close in her arms, my 
at present unattainable Philippa. I forgave 
her, for the older and younger girl made a 
pretty picture together, as several of us 
thought. 

Once more, good-bye, and they were gone; 
leaving us rather serious now, in realizing 
how long it might be ere we met again. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE. 

Why should I dwell on another leave-tak- 
ing ? It was a very hard one for poor Phil- 
ippa, and hard for me to see her suffer; al- 
though she bore it bravely for their sakes, to 
whom she had so endeared herself by her 
faithfulness, ready thoughtfulness and sunny 
disposition. 

It was arranged that a very worthy woman, 
Mrs. Larch, who was returning to England, 
should share her room with my cousin, and 
accompany her to the Lodge, on our arrival 
in port. 

Little Minnie, the doctor’s seven year old 
daughter, had picked a bunch of her fa- 
vorite wild flowers, which she handed to me 
in great secrecy, as a surprise for her young 
teacher on reaching her room in the steamer. 

1 carried out the programme faithfully, and 
placed beside the flowers a photograph that 1 
had secured of big Major, the St. Bernard who 
had helped to bring us together. This had 
been my secret, but Minnie’s gift and mine 
had cards attached now to make clear the 
donors. 

Mrs. Larch and I sat on the deck, watching 
the quickly fading shore, Philippa having 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


87 


gone below soon after her friends left the 
steamer. She soon joined us, and Mrs Larch 
remembering that she had many things to 
“put to rights,” as she called it, left us to keep 
each other company. As my cousin seated 
herself beside me I said, “You cannot ex- 
claim, ‘my native land, good night!’ Philippa, 
but you must look quickly if you would have 
a last glimpse of the world which you have 
known as yours for most of your years.” She 
did not answer at once, but looked where I 
had pointed out to her a hazy line, and then, 
as it finally disappeared, turned toward me 
with a gentle sigh of regret for those dear 
friends so recently by her side. 

She presently said, with much feeling, “It 
was very kind in you and Minnie to think of 
such things for me. Minnie and I loved the 
same flowers, and Major was almost always 
with us in our rambles.” 

“ I have a special liking for Major, too, ” I 
replied, “for he introduced me to the cousin I 
was so desirous to find. I shall always think 
of you when I see a St. Bernard — or a robin ! ” 
I added. She smiled at the odd association 
of large things and small; and we sat fora 
few minutes in silence. Possibly she knew 
that I should think of her at some other times 
also. 

Finally she again addressed me. “I have 
told you nearly all that I can remember of my 
not very eventful life; will you not now tell 


88 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


me more fully of my family and yours — where 
they joined, and how closely related ? I know 
we are cousins of some degree, but not ex- 
actly how. ” 

When I had shown her the simple form of 
chart, with the lines diverging so early, and 
now so far asunder that she was only my 
cousin in eighth degree, she was greatly sur- 
prised. 

“ Your father must have felt very strongly 
about this matter to have followed it up so 
carefully and charged you with so great a re- 
sponsibility, involving such a journey.” 

“ It certainly was very close to his heart, 
and you were too,” I said; with some emo 
tion, as 1 remembered how much he dwelt 
upon her lonely fate. I explained to her how 
my father had seen by chance the English 
newspaper, with the account of her father’s 
death, and the coincidences that he had no- 
ticed — the death of my mother and her father 
in the same year, each leaving an only child. It 
seemed a strange thing to her that we two, 
Philip and Philippa, were the last representa- 
tives of a race whose common ancestor was 
more than two hundred years distant. 

I told her also, how, in his grieving for my 
mother’s death, he had found some solace in 
tracing the matter out; and his hope that my 
own mourning for him would find relief in 
the search for my distant cousin, to carry out 
a father’s wish for her welfare. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


89 


“ He was right,” 1 said in conclusion, “ the 
search and the finding have comforted me as he 
knew it would.” 

“I am glad it has been so, ” murmured 
Philippa with glistening eyes. “ How strange 
it all is! How good your father was to think 
of me so, and you, Mr. Faulconer, to carry out 
his wishes for me so faithfully. When you 
have done all he desired, by seeing me safely 
to the Lodge, you will of course return to 
America. I had not thought of that.” 

Presently she said, “ In all these years was 
there no communication between the English 
and American Faulconers ?” 

“1 had supposed none,” I answered, “but 
in an old desk at the Lodge, Mrs. Brown found, 
one day, a letter from an ancestor of mine to 
his cousin, an ancestor of yours; and though 
she gave it to me, it is of right, yours. Here 
it is, with quite a little romance included in the 
letter and endorsement. You can just read it 
before the light fails.” 

Philippa read it carefully through, and then 
turned to the rather pathetic endorsement 
concerning that other Philippa’s message to 
her cousin, whom she never was to meet, but 
who should have “all the love a maid might 
give to a cousin unseen.” 

With a slight tremor in her voice, Philippa 
said, “Do you think, Mr. Faulconer, that 
Godfrey had already started before his cousin 
Philippa died ?” 


f 


90 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


“ He was no true Faulconer unless he went,” 
I answered, “if he believed his heart en- 
gaged.” 

“ But,” said my cousin, “remember it was 
simply his grandfather’s fancy, and that should 
not have ruled his own judgment on a matter 
so uncertain.” 

“True,” said I, “but suppose his heart in 
no way engaged at home, and I can well 
imagine he might be stirred by the thought 
that he would at least journey to see what 
Philippa was like. A man might well humour 
his father or grandfather thus far, and as he 
proceeded, his imagination might so enkindle 
as to write sonnets to the ‘unknown she !’ It is 
true that he might find at the end of his jour- 
ney that his imagination had played him false, 
that he loved her not, or, that loving her as 
deeply as he had dreamed, she had no love 
for him, and that he could inspire none. I 
think, however, in this latter case, she might 
give her heart a fair trial for answering affec- 
tion, before she shut him out of it. Should 
she not ?” 

“ I think she might fairly do so much,” said 
Philippa, and after a moment added — “ I hope 
Godfrey went.” 

We were sitting near enough to the social 
room to hear quite clearly the song that came 
now to break the new silence into which we 
had relapsed. The words that floated out 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


91 


were familiar ones to me and I presumed to 
her also — 

“ Could ye come back to me, Douglas! Douglas! 

In the old likeness that l knew, 

1 would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas! Douglas! tender and true.” 

“You know the song, and sing it, I pre- 
sume ?” I said, as the last note died away. 
As she did not answer at once, I looked at her 
in a moment, to find that she was shivering 
slightly; and as I drew the wrap about her 
shoulders, her eyes met mine, for an instant, 
with what I felt all through my being was 
love — tenderer, truer than any song could give 
forth! 

Her face changed quickly from that one 
flashing glance to something quieter; though 
1 thought it a little white, and troubled, as if 
she feared she had shown she scarcely knew 
what. I reasoned with myself that I could 
not have seen what I had been wild enough 
to imagine ; and even if it were true, my 
duty was plain — to steel,, my heart against 
seeking any response to its own beating, un- 
til I had placed Philippa safely in her domain. 

I could not, in honor, declare my love on 
this voyage, and after that even, she must see 
life in a fuller, larger way, before I had any 
right to tell her of my heart’s burden which 
was growing so heavy to bear alone. 

Still, that one glance of hers I never could 
forget. Whatever it might have meant it 
would always be treasured with a sweet de- 


92 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


light that my calmest reasoning could not 
drive from me. How much time passed ere 
1 received an answer I shall never know. Per- 
haps a few seconds, but it seemed as if an 
age of happiness floated by, ere that sweet 
voice by my side replied, “ It is the one song 
I never sing. I cannot. Do you not think, 
Mr. Faulconer, that the author of that song 
and of ‘John Halifax, Gentleman,’ has done a 
real service to the world ? Both ring so true, 
and so much is written that will not bear that 
simple test.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” I answered, “and 
I more than half think I have met the young 
lady who just sang. Yes, I can see her 
through the doorway now. It is Ethel May- 
berry, a near neighbor and old friend of mine, 
in America. Would you like to go in and 
meet her? She is lively, but straight-for- 
ward, and that is a passport to your favor. 
She is certainly very pretty. Will you go ? ” 

“Not tonight, please,” said Philippa, “un- 
less you very mucfi wish it;” and we sat as 
before a while, until turning again to me she 
asked — “am I to know sometime why you 
prefer me to call you ‘Mr. Faulconer,’ oris 
that to be always a secret ?” 

“ I certainly shall tell you why, one day, ” 
I replied, “and I wish I could tonight, but I 
ought not, cannot make my reason known at 
present; so you will let me have my reser- 
vation a little longer, I know. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


93 


You have one also, I remember, about danc- 
ing. Perhaps when you tell the reason for 
your reservation, I can tell mine.” She blushed 
very slightly, as if she had begun to under- 
stand now why she had long ago made it, and 
answered. “I am very well content to wait 
till the time arrives when you can tell me.” 
We went below soon, and after I had left her 
with Mrs. Larch, I sat in my state room for 
an hour, trying to review the evening’s events, 
and make a satisfactory decision as to some 
of them; but finally retired, still perplexed, 
though happy. 

When I met Philippa the next morning at 
breakfast, she looked a little pale and tired, 
but assured me she had not been at all sea- 
sick, and that the fresh air would soon make 
her feel all right. 

Many of the passengers were not so fortu- 
nate, and our table was not a very full one. 
Among the few there, I found Ethel Mayberry, 
who exclaimed on seeing me, “Why Phil, 
where did you come from! and where is 
McGinty ? How could you have had the heart 
to leave him at the bottom of the sea, ‘dressed 
in his best suit of clothes ?’ Were you jealous 
of their fit ? But seriously, Phil, if you did 
not come from the bottom of the sea, where 
was it from ? There is only one other expla- 
nation possible, and that is the very unlikely 
one that you were talking all last evening to 
some pretty girl, oblivious to all else. I call 


94 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


that unlikely, for I know how unimpression- 
able you always have been.” 

I did not quite like all this, but it was useless 
to attempt to stop Miss Ethel Mayberry until 
she was quite ready. 

I assured her that McGinty was well, at last 
accounts, and that I must now introduce her 
to Mrs. Larch and my cousin Philippa, who 
would be her fellow voyagers as far as Egypt. 
Ethel said that would be jolly, and now intro- 
duced us in turn to her aunt, (Miss Mayberry 
also) and to Jack Spaulding, a London broker 
of about her own age, who had been out to 
New Zealand on some business for his firm. 
Each of these young people was about twenty- 
two, and full of such high spirits that dull 
care would not dare to enter while they were 
present on the steamer. 

They were a fine looking couple, and seemed 
so well fitted for each other that 1 jumped to 
the conclusion that they were engaged, though 
I soon found my mistake in this. 

They were excellent friends, however, and 
good types of a class who make the world 
merrier and better with the sunshine they 
bring to it. 

“We enjoyed your singing last evening 
very much, Ethel,” said I, “ and after your ren- 
dering of ‘ Si tu savais,’ and one or two other 
songs, I was almost sure I recognized your 
voice; though I would not disturb your equa- 
nimity by suddenly appearing.” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


95 


“That was very considerate,” said Ethel, 
with a pretty little pout of protest, however. 
“You know how easily my aplomb is dis- 
turbed, Phil! Now it will be your cousin’s 
turn. She sings, I suppose ? 

As this remark was addressed to me, and as 
1 saw a little hesitation in Philippa about ans- 
wering for me, 1 said — “My cousin has had 
such a hard parting lately from her lifelong, 
dearest friends, that I do not think we can get 
her to sing at present, but 1 have prescribed 
for her a receptive mind for the diversions of 
the rest of us. 

She has had her full share of care and can 
try now a little season of irresponsibility with 
real benefit.” 

“ Mr. Faulconer is very kind to put it that 
way,” said Philippa, with a grateful glance in 
my direction, “but it is perhaps a little too 
comfortable for me. I have travelled so little, 
though, Miss Mayberry, that you cannot tell 
how new and strange everything is — the 
ocean, this steamer and the little world upon 
it; and just to sit and look about me fora 
while may be excusable until I am more ac- 
customed to this new life. I begin to think 
that mine has been a rather secluded one so 
far, though very pleasant — most of it.” 

I felt that the corner was now safely 
turned, and knew that Philippa would not 
again be asked to sing, which I had seen 
would not be agreeable to her. Ethel insisted, 


96 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


however, that Philippa should not again ad- 
dress her as Miss Mayberry. “My aunt is 
that, and it is too confusing. Besides, I am 
always Ethel to everybody that I like. Do 
you see the implication, Philippa ?” 

She favored us with a full account of her 
doings since leaving America, which had been 
partly lor her health. She had come via San 
Francisco, and would therefore have made 
the circuit of the world on reaching New 
York again. 

During the day we chatted and read in a 
group of four for the most part, though Jack, 
as he insisted on my calling him, and I, had 
the smoking room for an extra resource. I 
found myself less frequently there, however, 
than on the former voyage, and shall not 
weary my readers with any more philosophy 
drawn from thence. 

We promenaded the decks a good deal, as 
in duty bound for exercjse; and I told Philippa 
that this was excellent practice as a step 
toward that larger knowledge of the world 
that she desired, as 1 presumed; for Jack and 
Ethel were the best types of a good class. In 
the changing about, it was often her lot to 
walk with Jack, and I found that he had been 
successful in his wish that she also should 
call him by the familiar name. 

In the evening we were not always in the 
larger group, but occasionally Philippa and I 
were alone. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


97 


It would have thrilled me with an additional 
joy if I had dared to believe that she took half 
the pleasure in these meetings that I did ! 

I was sitting one evening in my favorite 
place, a little retired from most of the prome- 
naders, with another chair placed beside my 
own, which I hoped Philippa might eventually 
take, though just then she was being monop- 
olized by Ethel. I had been thinking that the 
latter was having more than her share of my 
cousin’s company, and was rather afraid she 
knew it and was enjoying the situation at my 
expense; when at length they stopped their 
walk at my chair. I was sure Ethel had one 
of her preposterous and unanswerable ques- 
tions ready to launch at me, by the look in 
her eye. 

“Do you know what a dear little thing this 
is ?” she said. 

“If you refer to my cousin, ” I responded, 
“ I have always understood she was prudent 
in her expenditures; but what purchases have 
you inveigled her into, now ? I know your 
lavish ways, though what you have found to 
buy on this steamer, I cannot imagine. ” 

“ Isn’t he provoking and altogether horrid ? ” 
exclaimed Ethel; “but it was just so when 
we were children together, ” she continued 
with a pensive air, as if the retrospect was 
rather pleasingly painful. “ As neither of you 
is nice about answering my questions, I shall 


98 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


go away and leave you, ” and she was gone 
ere I could find a fitting retort. 

"She is very pretty, and true as gold, I am 
sure, ” said Philippa, looking after her, and 
pausing a moment ere she took the seat beside 
which I stood. She added in a moment, — 
"It seems strange, somehow, that you should 
have known her all your life. ” I remained 
silent, for I was more interested just then in 
seeing that Philippa was seated and her wraps 
adjusted than in reminiscences of Ethel’s 
childhood. 

Presently she looked up and said: " 1 have 
never thanked you, Mr. Faulconer, for taking 
my part so quickly about that singing the 
other day. I couldn’t have done it, and it 
was very kind of you to help me. But how 
did you know that I felt so about it ? ” 

"It would be hard to tell how I know a 
great many things about you, Philippa; but 
you forget, you have already thanked me. ” 

She smiled, as if pleased that I remembered 
her glance of thanks, for she was too honest 
to pretend that she did not know what I 
meant. "You read my face well, ” she said. 

"1 try to, Philippa, but once or twice I have 
not been quite sure ” — and then I stopped, as 
I found I was drifting upon dangerous ground. 

In a few moments she spoke again. 

" I do not wonder you think of me as a 
child yet. I did not quite like it at first, but 
1 am beginning to see how little I know of 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


99 


many things deemed requisites by most 
people. Do you care very much for what is 
generally called society?” 

“I have sometimes thought, not enough, ” 

I replied — “for I know there are many good 
good things within it if the word is rightly 
construed. Pleasant companionship, new 
friendships sometimes, the attrition of bright 
minds; for all there, is not frivolity, selfishness, 
or worse, as some would have us believe. 
Yet unless 1 force myself, or am forced, I do 
not think I shall ever go into society much. 
To give one’s self up to it absorbs too much 
time for the result gained, it seems to me. ’» 

“ I feel much the same about it, ” she re- 
sponded, “but I know you wish me to taste 
its joys, before I decide to forsake the world!” 
and she added, with a smile; “Is it not so?” 

“ Yes, I want you to have a fair chance for 
measurement and comparison, before you de- 
cide — before you settle down,” I amended 
somewhat lamely. She burst into a merry 
laugh in which I joined, though I am not sure 
that either of us could have said just why we 
laughed. Perhaps I saw a difficult situation 
relieved by it, but her laughter was so merry 
that I never could resist joining in it. 

The days had passed all too quickly, when 
good-byes were to be said for the present, 
but the time had come; and there were com- 
pensations — for I could spare Jack awhile, 
much as I liked him. He and Philippa were ex- 


LtfC. 


100 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


cellent friends, and they had necessarily been 
together a good deal. He had a freer hand to 
try for her regard than I. at present. He 
would have called himself “handicapped'’ if 
he had been in my place. It would be a fairer 
field when we all met in June again, at the 
Lodge, where Philippa was to have a house 
party. Yes, I could spare Jack now. So we 
parted with “ au revoirs; ” they proceeding di- 
rect to England, while we were to have a 
glimpse of Egypt, Italy and Switzerland, first. 

I should forever treasure those evenings on 
deck with Philippa, for so much I had secured 
at least, that I could call my own. How 
heartily Jack had accepted the invitation to 
the Lodge ! That was a week ago, and I had 
been fool enough to think Ethel might have 
been the reason for his radiance. Was not 
Philippa the magnet, rather ? It looked prob- 
able. 

We parted from another of our fellow pas- 
sengers with much regret. I have not alluded 
to Miss Edith Manners, but she had excited 
no little interest in Philippa’s mind, which of 
itself would have interested me; though I 
had observed her before we spoke of her to 
each other. 

She was of a distinctly different type from 
either Philippa, Grace, or Ethel — tall, almost 
statuesque in form, with a face that many 
called cold, and all admitted was beautiful. 

The opinion, in fact, had been rather freely 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


101 


expressed in the ship, that she was a decidedly 
unimpassioned young lady, and though none 
called her haughty, she was considered rather 
unapproachable. I had ventured an early 
judgment on her when I saw my cousin’s in- 
terest. 

“So far from being cold,” I said, “ whoever 
gains her heart will be rewarded with such a 
wealth of affection, that he will never cease 
to congratulate himself that he was the one 
man who had power to loose the torrent.” 
Philippa looked at me a little quizzically for a 
moment, and then laughed outright. “ I was 
thinking,” she said, “that if Ethel had heard 
you, she would have declared you spoke far 
from impersonally!” 

“ She would be nearer the truth if she said 
‘ out of the abundance of the heart the mouth 
speaketh. ’ That would be a riddle for her to 
solve, ” I answered. 

Philippa looked as if this was a puzzle to 
her also; but gave it up for the present and 
said, “Seriously, Mr. Faulconer, I think you 
are right, and 1 will say to you, that there are 
special reasons, I am sure, why Edith should 
now be granted the seclusion she has sought, 
from most. She has had much to make her 
anxious and I believe is acting a brave part.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

VENICE — COMO — CHAMOUNIX. 

A month in Egypt. The reader knows what 
that means, and this is not a book of travel, 
but of love experiences; a theme large enough 
for most, if too restricted for a few. Unhappy 
few! I confess that 1 felt no surer of the final 
outcome as time went on; but the more 
thickly difficulties arose, the more determined 
I was to surmount them. It seemed some- 
times almost absurd to suppose it possible 
that 1 could ever really engage the affection of 
Philippa in the only way I wished. I knew 
that she liked me in frank and friendly fashion, 
but she had not given me many opportuni- 
ties lately of reading her face; and I was not 
unaware of many deficiencies in myself where 
others excelled. 

Our route for the present was Naples, Sor- 
rento, Amalfi, La Cava, Pompeii, Rome, 
Florence and Venice. 

It was a revelation to Philippa of lovely 
scenery, and beautiful works of art, that might 
well drive from her mind any superficial im- 
pression I had made. 

How delighted she was in the drive from 
Sorrento to Amalfi and La Cava; and I could 
not resist her enthusiasm over the wonders of 
Pompeii, the art treasures of Rome and Flor- 
ence, or the never-ending charms of Venice. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


103 


Miss Mitchell’s account of this last place was 
in my mind as we stepped into the gondola, 
and silently wound our way through the water 
pathways to the hotel on the Grand Canal. 

I do not know that we spoke a word. All 
that I remember, is a little pressure on my arm 
as we came out into the broader water, and 
slowly passed the old palaces; with music 
sounding near us, and the notes of a fine tenor 
voice floating back from a distant gondola. 

I did not stir, nor hardly breathe, lest Philippa’s 
little hand should leave my arm; but I looked 
at her face so radiant with happiness, and so 
unconscious of her movement (except the 
desire that I should share with her) until she 
must have felt my glance. 

She looked up a moment, and the slightest 
color came to her cheeks, as she gently and 
slowly released my arm. “ I have enjoyed it 
more, so — together — Philippa,” I whispered; 
but she did not answer, or raise her head. 

Would she have had a response ready for 
Jack ? I could not tell. There were many 
things I could not tell about her, lately. 

And so Venice had brought me alternations 
of joy, disquiet, and happiness again — as I 
saw her happy. 

We were two weeks there, and became so 
familiar with the streets and waterways as to 
feel tjuite at home. 

Mrs. Larch was more interested in the con- 
tents of the shops in the great square by San 


104 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Marco, than in the cathedral itself; and Phil- 
ippa was very patient in going time and again 
to view the glittering displays, which had not 
quite so strong a hold upon her. We both felt 
that Mrs. Larch had been exceedingly kind in 
deferring her homeward journey long enough 
for us to see much on the continent that we 
desired. 

As we sat in Florian’s the night before our 
departure, slowly sipping ices, and enjoying 
the life and brightness of the matchless square 
dominated by San Marco and the Campanile, 

I said to Philippa, “What have you enjoyed 
the most, of all you have seen since landing at 
Naples — the drive from Sorrento to Amalfi — 
the streets and houses of Pompeii — the amphi- 
theatre at Rome with its noble surroundings — 
the Tribune of the Uffizi at Florence — or that 
first entrance to Venice? to say nothing of 
Giacosa’s at Florence and Florian’s here. ’ 

She laughed at my conclusion, and replied, 
“ I do believe that those cakes and candies at 
Giacosa’s are the best in the world, and the 
ices here are very refreshing. It certainly is a 
comfort to revive the body with such nectar 
and ambrosia, when both mind and heart 
have been so exalted and entranced ! But seri- 
ously, Mr. Faulconer, though you have men- 
tioned very dissimilar things, I can answer at 
once that the first evening in Venice made the 
strongest impression. I can never forget it,” 
she added slowly. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


105 


“Nor I. ‘While memory holds a seat in 
this distracted globe,’ I shall remember that 
night, Phillippa.” 

She seemed a little uncertain whether I 
meant to cover some real trouble under the 
quotation; but presently replied — “You have 
not been really distracted in this peaceful 
place, 1 am sure.” 

“No, not beyond cure,” I said recklessly, 
for sometimes my self-imposed task to be no 
more in her charming presence than a staid 
caretaker and counsellor, was too hard a role 
to act quite consistently. “Yes, all is won- 
derfully beautiful here, Philippa,” I continued 
in another strain, “but wonders yet remain 
ahead of us. ‘ The performance is not half 
over ,’ as they used to say in my boyhood days 
at the circus; thus reassuring my anxious 
spirit, for 1 could never get enough of it. 
We have yet to take the Italian lakes, Switz- 
erland, Paris, and best of all, your own 
England. I hope you may see Devon and 
Cornwall there, sometime — and I too.” I did 
not say together, but a wild dream so framed 
it in my mind — for a wedding trip! 

We left Venice with the regret all feel who 
have experienced the charm of that most 
wonderful of cities; and after proceeding to 
Milan and seeing its beautiful cathedral, we 
went to Como and took steamer for Bellagio. 
The day was one of those perfect ones that 
Italy so often grants the traveller, and as we 


106 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


sailed out on the lake that some call the most 
beautiful in the world, we were nearly ready 
to believe it. 

I had been talking with the ladies but a few 
minutes, when I heard a scream, and turning 
quickly, saw that a peasant woman’s baby 
had dropped from her arms, by some clumsy 
movement, into the lake. I threw my coat 
into Philippa’s lap, and jumped into the water 
in time, as it proved, to reach the little one 
while its clothes were still buoyant. 

Philippa’s quick wit had been shown by 
throwing after me a seat, which helped to keep 
our heads above water until we were picked 
up. 

All the blessings imaginable were showered 
upon me by the mother, whose grief had been 
so vociferous, that it had been hard for Philippa 
to convince her that the baby was safe with 
me. 

My cousin’s face was very pale as I came 
aboard, but she held her feelings resolutely 
in check, save a look in her eyes which showed 
that joy at my safety, had but just taken the 
place of an agonizing fear of disaster. 

I thanked her for that thought of the seat, 
and assured her I was none the worse for my 
bath. “You know,” I said, “as a swimmer, 
how little risk I ran. I will confess that in- 
stead of being impelled by a proper spirit in 
my task, I entered the water with a vexed 
feeling at the woman’s carelessness, whereby 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


107 


I was to be made uncomfortable for the rest 
of the sail. I cooled off soon, however, and 
have returned in a better spirit than I went, 
with a new cause for blessing you.” 

We stopped at that hotel (a dependence of 
the Grand Bretagne) which is so charmingly 
situated above the town of Bellagio. After 
a walk around the promontory, we returned 
to the hotel and sat that evening under the 
fine trees close beside it. Mrs. Larch soon 
retired, but Philippa and I lingered long to en- 
joy the beautiful view, first in the twilight 
and later bathed in the rays of the moon. 

No one who has been to this spot, can 
ever forget its own delightful surroundings, 
or the larger setting of the whole promontory, 
like a gem encircled by the azure resplendence 
of a larger gem. 

The snow had not yet left the higher 
mountains to the north of us, but the night- 
ingales were already here, and their melody 
was the last touch needed to make a perfect 
paradise, as Philippa said. I wanted to an- 
swer that the last touch had come with her 
presence! 

I suppose there could not have been se- 
lected a pathway through Europe better de- 
signed to make a young man, of any senti- 
ment, long to clasp such a companion to the 
heart that ached for her. Could I be ex- 
cused for not doing it? Fate put hard 
junctures before me. 


108 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


At Venice, a matchless night, as we floated 
along in our gondola to music’s accompani- 
ment — here a night as lovely, a scene as fair, 
with the nightingale’s notes the new accom- 
paniment. 

She and I still, side by side, but not even 
hands clasped! 

Why did I not pour forth my love at such 
a time as this, and take her heart captive by 
the mighty force that ruled my own ? Why 
not, indeed, try at any hazard! Heaven 
knows that it would have been a relief to my 
spirit to risk all, and either get rest for an 
aching heart in the bliss of her answering love, 
or, if that was not to be, learn the worst. 

“Fulfil your trust, Phil! ” my father’s voice 
seemed to say, and I arose as if that thought 
ol what my father would have said, had 
sounded in my ear. 

Philippa arose, too, and laying her hand 
upon my arm for a moment, said very gently, 
“Something troubles you. Can I not help ?” 

I must have shown more of the conflict 
within me than 1 meant my face should dis- 
close, to have this sweet offer of help, which 
I could not misunderstand. Already it com- 
forted me. 

“My dear child,” I answered, “You have 
helped me and done me good from the time 
we first met. I arose at the call of duty, which 
seemed to come from my father, as if he had 
spoken. ‘Fulfil your trust, Phil!’ were the 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


109 


words, and fulfil it 1 must, if it seems hard at 
times.” 

“I am sure you will,” said Philippa, lifting 
her eyes to mine, though they were shining 
with emotion, “and before we part for the 
night, I want you to know that I have ever 
trusted, and ever will, that you will do what 
duty to yourself, to him, to me, demands. 
One thing more I must tell you ” — and here 
her voice trembled a little — “how grateful to 
God 1 am that he spared your life today. The 
prayer that he would do so was in my heart, 
while you were struggling to save that little 
child. It became a prayer of thankfulness.” 

“ God bless you, Philippa,” I said, “for your 
prayers, and all that you have done, are ever 
doing for me, by your confidence, your trust.” 

We went in now, both quietly happy, I 
believe. 

The next day we went to Cadenabbia and 
staid a day or two at the Britannia Hotel very 
pleasantly, then across to lake Lugano, and via 
the St. Gotthard Pass to Goeschenen, over 
the Furca Pass to Brieg, railroad to Martigny 
and over the Tete Noir to Chamounix. 
There are two hotels called “ Couttet,” at 
Chamounix, both good, but we were very 
little within the walls of the one chance 
allotted to us. The weather was too fine 
to stay inside, and our time was employed 
with trips to the Bossons Glacier, up the 
Montanvert and across the Mer de Glace, etc. 


110 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


There was one spot on the hillside, not far 
from the hotel, that was a favorite resort of 
ours during the week of our stay. 

The view of Mt. Blanc in all its majesty 
was superb from here, and Philippa never tired 
of looking at it, nor I of watching her. 

She received a characteristic letter from 
Ethel while at Chamounix, in which there 
was an account of a visit paid to the Lodge. 

“I could not wait until you slow people 
got here, so auntie and I left London for a short 
visit to Eastbourne, incidentally calling on 
Mrs. Brown at the Lodge, your dear Faulcon- 
ridge, as you will soon learn to call it. Mrs. 
Brown is a good soul, kindness itself, and can 
hardly wait to see you. 

The house is spick and span, from cellar to 
garret, or top of tower if you prefer; and 
she showed me the room there that Phil oc- 
cupied. I was nearly overcome with emotion 
as I stood by the very window in that eyrie 
from which he once looked; and I tried to 
imagine what his thoughts were then. 

Tell him that I have a lot of questions that 
nobody but he can answer, and he is always 
so good about it! I want to see him very 
much, as well as you. I wonder if he re- 
members how I used to call him a pokey boy, 
at school, and how it teased him ! 

Afterwards he joined a base ball team as 
short stop, to show he wasn’t pokey, 1 sup- 
pose. That makes me think of a conun- 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Ill 


drum — ‘Why is Phil like cricket?’ The 
answer is obvious — ‘ Both are so slow ! ’ 

We went to see a game at Lord’s, but did 
not stay very long. It won’t compare with 
base ball for snap and go. We have been to 
the theatre in London a great deal, to grand 
opera some, besides galleries, drives, walks, 
and countless excursions in the vicinity. 

Jack and I are counting the days until you 
return. He has asked me so often the date 
of your house party that I advised him finally 
to enter it in his notes. I think he has. A 
great deal of love to you, and a little to Phil, 
though he doesn’t deserve it. ” 

“There is a good deal of Phil in it, isn’t 
there?” remarked Philippa. 

“Yes,” I replied, “and in your answer just 
say from me that her letter was a veritable 
love Phil-ter — yet no real fillip in it! She de- 
serves it for her conundrum, and other enor- 
mities that I can read between the lines. Do 
you remember what utterly unanswerable 
questions she used to delight in propounding?” 

“ Yes, I remember one or two of them, ” 
said Philippa, laughing, and then flushing a 
little. “ One was whether you were not ‘pro- 
voking and altogether horrid ! ’ Of course I 
could not assent to such a sweeping statement 
while in your care — even if 1 had thought so!” 

“ Another, ” said I, “ was whether you were 
not a ‘ dear little thing ' — to which I gave what 
the Irishman called an evasive answer — for 


112 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


I would not commit myself to her on so per- 
sonal a matter. It would not do to assent to 
it while 1 was responsible for your care, of 
course ! ” 

Philippa laughed at my using her own 
words so nearly, but neither of us pursued the 
subject any further. 

From Chamounix to Geneva, where the la- 
dies wished to make some purchases, and re- 
new their wardrobes a little; and then we went 
to the other end of the lake, Lausanne, Vevey 
and Montreux, for a few days. At Montreux 
we stopped at an excellent pension above the 
main town, in the part called La Planche. 
We took delightful walks from here, but our 
favorite ramble in the evening was to the old 
church, quite close to us, the little terrace 
there affording a grand view, as we sat and 
talked of many things — of all except what 
was nearest to my heart. I remember the 
last time that we sat there, both unwilling to 
leave such a lovely scene, and how at length 
conversation ceased. I wondered if she 
would ever care to know what I had been 
thinking about. It was of love’s stepping- 
stones, if by any possibility I could call them 
so. Mine were reckoned in order; the seat in 
the park where I first met her — the boat 
where she gave me that look of trust — the 
steamer where she gave me that other look, 
whose meaning I dared not hope too much 
from — the gondola where she touched my 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


113 


arm — Bellagio, where she told me of her 
grateful prayer — and here by the old church, 
which I would have liked to enter and bring 
her forth my bride! 

The steps had not reached so far as that, 
but had there been any progression to her , in 
these stepping-stones of mine ? 

We were a week in Paris, and enjoyed it, 
although the city had not, nor ever could 
have, the hold on me that London had taken. 
There we next arrived. 

We had pleasant quarters in Bloomsbury, 
and as I did not know when Philippa might 
again have an opportunity to see the metrop- 
olis, and as she seemed also in no hurry to 
leave my care, we gave several days to sight- 
seeing there. 

This included the usual round of places 
visited by travelers, besides the theatres, con- 
certs and opera; nor did we forget a visit to 
the trim cricket ground at Lord’s, and a boat 
race at Henley. 

The theatres were giving some good bills 
while we were there, and I was glad to enjoy 
with her, two favorites of mine in comedy — 
“As you like it” and “Our boys.” 

It was now time to proceed to the home of 
Philippa’s youth, where, my trust having been 
fulfilled, what remained for me to do? 

Philippa had said I would do my duty. 
What was it ? 


CHAPTER X. 

AT THE LODGE. 

Mrs. Brown stood in the doorway as we 
drove up, and I could see that her eyes were 
misty, and her hands in a little tremor of 
expectation, ere we alighted. We needed no 
introduction, nor was there time, for she 
took Philippa right to her arms, after one look 
had been exchanged. I think they both shed 
a few tears, and even practical Mrs. Larch 
took off her glasses and rubbed them vigor- 
ously. 

Now that her mission was finished, she pre- 
pared to leave us, but neither Mrs. Brown nor 
Philippa would permit this yet; and the driver 
was told to wait, while Mrs. Larch tarried at 
least long enough for a cup of tea. This 
done, she insisted on leaving for her train, after 
Philippa and I had most fervently thanked her 
for the kind oversight of my cousin. 

“It is an office I would have refused to 
undertake for most people,” said she, “but 
Dr. Pell has been too good a friend to refuse 
him anything I could in reason do. As for 
you young folks, I was assured that you were 
old enough to take pretty good care of your- 
selves. This has proved true — as also of each 
other!” she smilingly added. “Nor have you 
forgotten to be kind and thoughtful to me, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


115 


as 1 shall write the doctor. Good-bye to you 
both, and may happiness come to your lives, 
whether near, or far apart. Remember that I 
live in Lynton, if either of you ever gets so far 
as Devonshire.” 

When the door was closed, we sat for some 
time in silence, our hearts full of many things. 

Mrs. Brown aroused herself at last to what 
she considered her duty, and took Philippa to 
her room, turning to me on the threshold, 
however, as she said, “I was right, you see, 
about the likeness to her grandmother’s por- 
trait! ” 

“You were, Mrs. Brown,” I answered, 
“and it was by that picture I found her.” 

She was gone some time with Philippa, and 
on their return I was told how the good 
woman had already planned out everything 
for their living together, subject to Philippa’s 
approval on arrival. 

Mrs. Brown would be cook and housekeeper, 
while her deft little grand niece, Polly, would 
serve as housemaid and general helper, their 
rooms being located in the ell over the 
kitchen. 

That left the main house at Philippa’s dis- 
posal, and though not large, it was as com- 
fortable and homelike as could be desired. 
Philippa chose the room in the tower, which 
I had once occupied, for her own, and there 
were three rooms left for guests. On the 
first floor there was the parlor, dining room, 


116 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


conservatory, and a cozy little study or library, 
where my father had placed a few good books 
of reference, and some well-selected fiction. 

“ I have found your fathers hand every- 
where,” said Philippa, “in my tour of the 
house, and these books are my especial fa- 
vorites. I have not many, and almost all of 
them are here, as if he had known my taste. 
How could he ?” 

“ They were his favorites, too,” said 1, “and 
mine, and he may have thought your choice 
would not be far different.” 

“I have so often said ‘this is all so strange!' 
Mr. Faulconer, that 1 will not repeat it; and 
indeed I feel as if I could now change it, and 
say ‘how natural it all seems.’ 

Every moment that passes fastens something 
new upon my affection; yes, your father was 
right in believing that love would awaken 
in me for the home of my ancestors. I do 
love it, and 1 love your father, next to my 
own, who in this house clasped me to him 
with a fear, beneath his deep affection, for 
my future. 

He knows now how I have been cared for, 
and blesses his distant kinsman. You must 
excuse my tears, Mr. Faulconer. 1 am afraid 
there is something of the child in me still; 
and so much has been done for me, so many 
memories are awakened here, that I was for 
a moment overcome.” 

I answered only by taking her hand in 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


117 


mine, to show that I understood it all; and 
strove as well as I could to keep the love that 
filled my heart, from showing in my face, 
much as I longed to take her to my heart and 
comfort her there. 

Miss Mitchell would have said, doubtless, 
“Why not ?” Yet I knew it could not be right 
for me to declare my love now. Not when 
Philippa was unnerved, and moved by many 
things other than love of me, if indeed that 
had any part. 

It would be fairer to her, to ask for that 
heart’s answer to mine, after she had become 
accustomed to her surroundings and to the 
new life; and when other friends had been 
here, Ethel — and Jack. The hardest, but the 
truest, bravest way to win her, was to wait. 
It could not be for long, now. 

I told Philippa that I must return at once to 
London, but should come to her house party 
the following week. Meanwhile, she would 
have become used to her daily round, and 
undoubtedly would see many of her father’s 
friends, who as we knew from Mrs. Brown, 
had made numerous inquiries as to the time 
of her arrival. “ You will have a busy week, 
Philippa, in entertaining callers, and undoubt- 
edly in going out yourself a good deal — to 
afternoon teas, lawn parties, a formal dinner 
or two and perhaps a picnic. So you should 
not be lonesome. Had you feared that the 
life might be rather a narrow one ?” 


118 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


She passed this lightly by, and I knew 
without her telling me, that a simple country 
life would well content one so resourceful. 

She had seemed a little startled, however, at 
what I first said, about my immediate depar- 
ture. 

“You have taken good care of me, Mr. 
Faulconer,” she said, “and well fulfilled the 
trust your father gave you. Promise me now 
to take good care of yourself until you join 
my little party next week — the first I ever 
gave; but you will all be indulgent critics to 
my youth and inexperience. As to being- 
lonesome, you know, I think, that it would 
never be from the cause you spoke of.” 

She looked up half shyly a moment, as she 
finished, and my heart fluttered with a wild 
hope that it was in my absence, only, she 
might have such a feeling! 

She continued presently — with a rather 
wan little smile — “How close to your heart 
you keep that idea of my seeing the world — 
‘ opportunity for comparisons’ you once called 
it. You see how well I remember! Well, 

I will try and crowd all the comparisons pos- 
sible into the week, ere I see you!” she said 
merrily at last, as she held out her hand — and 
I left her. I looked back a moment later, on 
hearing a low exclamation from her, to see my 
old friend, the robin, coming to her for crumbs. 

“Your messenger, again!” she said. “1 
wonder what he has to say this time?” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


119 


“ Whatever it is, give him all the comfort 
you can,” I replied, and the last thing I saw, 
as I turned the lane, was a pretty picture of 
Philippa feeding the robin from one hand, 
while she waved the other to me in final adieu. 
God bless and keep her! I thought. 

On my return to London I found a letter 
awaiting me from Dr. Pell, which will ex- 
plain itself. 

Dear Mr. Faulconer — 

Yours from Cairo received, asking if by 
any possibility I could get for you the brother 
of Major, on the next farm to mine. 

They would not part with him, but thinking 
Major himself may do as well, or better, I 
shall ship him in care of a second class pas- 
senger, to be delivered you in person, at 
your London address. He will arrive within 
a week or so of this letter. 

I may have an idea of what disposition you 
will make of him, but whether I am right or 
not, he is at your own disposal. We shall 
miss him for a time, but a puppy of the same 
breed is trying to console Minnie, or cajole 
her, by his antics, for the loss of Philippa. 

We all miss the dear child very much, and 
you must give her the love of the whole 
household. Mrs. Pell will write her soon, 
and I must close this to catch the steamer. 

Yours truly, 


J. C. PELL. 


120 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


To say that this letter gave me pleasure, 
would lightly express it, for I had not dreamed 
of Major’s coming. 

It would bring joy to Philippa’s heart when 
she saw him, and if he arrived in time, as I 
hoped, she could have him instead of the one 
I had intended for her seventeenth birthday. 

He would be a good companion, a faithful 
guardian for the house, and an ever present 
reminder of the far away household so dear 
to her. 

I was glad to remember that he had early 
shown his approval of me, and that 1 should 
have one friend at court now. 

Jack sauntered in one evening, and had a 
cigar with me. 

He said that Ethel and her aunt were at 
Oxford for a few days, but would be back in 
time to accept Philippa’s invitation. He 
talked more of the latter than he did of Ethel, 
but said rather loftily, “ She is a very good 
kind of girl, only different from Philippa.” 
1 replied rather warmly, that Ethel was as 
bright and true-hearted a girl as one could 
meet almost anywhere, and as I had known 
her from a child I could the better testify to it. 

“ Yes,” said Jack, “you have known her 
longer than I have, when one comes to think 
of it; but then I always make quick decisions, 
and so I did in her case. We have to decide 
quickly in my business. Millions depend on 
it, sometimes. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


121 


Mind you Phil, I like Ethel just the same. 
Don’t misunderstand me. She has many 
good points, of course.” 

Poor Ethel, coolly dismissed from the con- 
versation, as if she were a block of shares in 
one of Jack’s confounded companies! He 
might as well have been on the floor of the 
Exchange bidding her up and down, and fin- 
ally pocketing his memorandum, deciding not 
to take the lot. It would be ludicrous if it 
were not tragic for her. Poor Ethel! That 
is, if she loved Jack. 

“ Well,” he said, finally, ‘M must be off. 
No idea it was so late. Hope you will be at 
the Lodge, too. Don’t forget day and date.” 

Forget! I should rather say not, and don’t 
delude yourself Mr. Jack about my not being 
there! 

1 had never seen him appear to worse ad- 
vantage. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE CONSERVATORY. 

I know the reader will say that I ought to 
have shunned the conservatory at all hazards, 
for conservatories have ever been productive 
of misunderstandings, and have shipwrecked 
many a poor lover’s hopes. I knew all this, 
but I was prepared to defy augury, and 
wherever I found Philippa alone, there would 
I declare my love. It happened to be in the 
conservatory, on the afternoon of my arrival, 
that I first saw her. How impatient I had 
been for the time to come when I could hon- 
estly put the question that made my life; for 
I scarcely dared think what life would be 
without Philippa. 

She was standing with her face turned 
away from me as I entered, but heard my 
footsteps, and came to meet me with a smile 
of welcome. 

As she took my hand, she must have seen 
something in my face that told my errand, 
for she flushed slightly, and then, as I still 
kept her hand, the eyes that had questioned 
mine timidly a moment, dropped their gaze, 
while her cheeks lost their color now. 

I whispered, “Do you know, Philippa, what 
I have come to say?” 

She gave me one glance, so full of trust — of 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


123 


love, I dared to think — that I had nearly caught 
her to my heart; when staying me with her 
little hand, she said in the low, sweet voice that 
was always so dear to me, “ I think 1 know, 
but are you sure?” 

“Sure that I love you, Philippa, and ever 
have, as my very life, since first we met!” 
I thought for a moment, she would come now 
to my arms, but she controlled whatever 
emotion it was that moved her, and said, 
“ Mr. Faulconer, I know you are honest in 
your belief and declaration; but 1 have been 
thinking of many things since you were here, 
and trying to think them all out the right way. 

Are you sure there is not illusion in this, 
and that duty to your father, to me, has not 
raised an image in your mind, rather than your 
heart ? 

Do not for your sake, for mine, whose love 
you seek, place in your heart anything but a 
true image. 

You have known others much longer, have 
seen them tried as I have not yet been, and 
found them true. 

Is not some one of these a better choice ? 
May not one indeed have a better claim upon 
your heart, in having loved you before I — 
ever saw you.” 

As she concluded, with a little tremor in 
her voice in spite of herself, I could only say, 
“But you, Philippa — do you love me, my 
darling? That is all I ask.” 


124 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


1 cannot tell what her reply would have 
been, but I know I was the second time al- 
most folding my arms about her, when, as if 
in answer to my question, came the words — 
“ Dids’t thou but know howl adore thee! 
Dids’t thou but know!” — carolled forth in 
Ethel’s rich contralto voice, and followed by 
her footsteps, which paused as she reached 
the door. 

A ceremonious knocking, and then she 
called out, “Puss, Puss in the corner!” and 
danced radiantly in, remarking, “1 always say 
that before I come into a conservatory, they 
are such terribly risky places. I hoped you 
were alone, but it is best to be sure always.” 

1 perceived now that Philippa had glided 
out by the other door while Ethel was going 
through her elaborate formalities. 

I turned to Ethel, so savage within, that I 
would not trust my voice, but she had re- 
lapsed from her gay mood to a sad and pensive 
one. 

“1 wanted to talk with you, Phil, about old 
times, those early days when we were chil- 
dren together — and a little later, too.” Here 
followed a long pause and then she said, “ It 
cannot be today, I see. It was about that re- 
ceipt for caramels; the kind we both liked so 
much. I thought you might remember — but 
don’t try, your mind is not at ease evi- 
dently, and I am very much afraid it is be- 
cause you have been bad, or are going to be. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


125 


Let me know if lean help you, Phil,” she said, 
gaily — “I mean if 1 can help you to be ^ 00 ^!” 
she called back, and was gone. 

Jack and Ethel between them, had done 
their best to wreck my hopes, that was evi- 
dent; Ethel by her untimely visit — and Jack — 
where was he? Trying for Philippa’s hand 
at this moment, perhaps. His decisions were 
“quickly made,” he had said. 

Did she care for him ? I hoped and believed 
not. If, however, the idea possessed Philippa, 
that Ethel’s heart had been alreadv given me — 
even without my knowledge — it was evident 
that she would not, as a new comer to my life, 
place herself where Ethel had the prior right. 

1 was thankful that Philippa had not heard 
those words that Ethel had so softly, sadly 
uttered, about the “days when we were 
children together, and a little later, too ” — 
followed by such a suggestive pause. 

There would have seemed but one con- 
struction to that, unless she had also heard 
about the caramels. 1 went through the con- 
servatory to the door by which Philippa must 
have departed, but it was locked upon the 
other side! 

How then could she have gone ? Except 
for an open window, no other exit was 
to be had. I looked out, but escape was 
impossible that way, for the ravine ran around 
the base of the tower here like a natural moat. 
Only a long jump could have cleared it. 


126 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


I looked again and saw faint footprints on 
the soft uneven ground upon the other side. 

Philippa had jumped! 

She had heard those first words, and, 
dreading to come upon Ethel’s sadness in that 
pause, had dared the leap to save her friend’s 
peace of mind. 

All this for caramels! and my heart bleed- 
ing; while Philippa ought to have been resting 
her own there, to heal mine. 

She should yet if I had power to make her 
see clearly that her path and mine lay hence- 
forward together, away from such pitfalls. 
I jumped this one, however, hoping it might 
be the last chasm between us, and landed 
about as she had done, wondering still more 
how she could have accomplished it. 

My present plan was to take her with me to 
Ethel, and when that young lady had cleared 
the situation and been properly reproved, if 
repentant she should have her receipt for 
caramels — eventually. 

My spirits rose at this programme, but no- 
where could I find my cousin; and only when 
evening came did she appear, with the imper- 
turbable Jack, of course. Her face looked pale 
and a little drawn, as if she was in some pain. 
Had he also spoken to her in words of love ? 

This first evening at the Lodge was not 
quite the joyous occasion we had anticipated. 
In completing the circle 1 had apparently 
brought anything but good cheer with me. 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


127 


Even Ethel’s spirits were not proof against 
the pervading gloom, and whispering in my 
ear as if in long-understood confidence (fo r 
which choking would have been a light pun- 
ishment) “It is in the air Phil, can’t you dispel 
it ?” — she went to the piano and commenced 
to sing “ Wait till the clouds roll by!” 

We all laughed, and did our parts better 
then until we retired; which, by mutual agree- 
ment, was early. 

There had been no opportunity to get Ethel 
and Philippa where 1 could clear matters 
as I had hoped, and tomorrow I must be back 
in London for a day or two. 

I lit a cigar and sat by the window for a 
long time before going to my bed, trying to 
review an eventful day, and lay out a more 
successful plan for the future. 

About midnight, when my cigar was 
just finished, I heard a light footstep ap- 
proach my door, and a letter was pushed un- 
der it. I waited until the steps could no 
longer be heard, and then lit my candle and 
picked up the letter. 

It was in Philippa’s hand I was sure, though 
I had never had a letter from her before; and 
I took an illogical pleasure in gazing some 
time at the address before opening the enve- 
lope. It read thus: 

“My Dear Mr. Faulconer — 

1 have been so unfortunate, as to sprain 
my ankle, and shall have to rest it in the morn- 


128 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


ing, so I fear I cannot see you before you go 
on your errand to London, tomorrow. You 
were to be back, you said, on my birthday, 
and I shall be much better then, I am sure. 

You have the right to an early response to 
what you said today, and I wish you to have 
this, therefore, before you go to London. 

I have no doubt you believe you love me, 
and I know you would always care for me, 
tenderly and truly; but you heard your old 
playmate’s words, as I was forced to do. 

Should you not search your heart first of all 
for a response to her love ? 

You knew her so many years before you 
met me, that it is only her right that you 
should do this. 

1 wish you to understand how deeply I feel 
all you have done for my happiness and wel- 
fare, and if I say that I shall always trust you 
utterly, may not that serve almost as well as 
if I had the right to say — ‘ I love you ?’ 

1 do not know how much happiness may be 
meant for me here on earth, but I know 1 shall 
find some in my nightly prayer for you and 
yours. 

Your loving cousin, 

PHILIPPA.” 

I blessed my true-hearted darling from the 
bottom of my heart, and then quickly an- 
swered thus: 

“My Darling Philippa — 

I am going to bed happier, lar happier then I 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


129 


ever was before, or could ever have hoped to 
be. Your letter gives me this joy, because 
yoyr love stole into it unawares and told me 
its message, notwithstanding your words. 

Meet me at the arbor on your birthday, 
dearest, at ten in the morning, after disposing 
of Jack and Ethel. They won’t mind where, 
if they are together, I am very sure. 

I will tell you why I formerly preferred ‘ Mr. 
Faulconer’ to ‘Philip’ (from you) and some 
other things you may like to hear. A mutual 
friend will be present at our meeting. 

Your own 

PHIL.” 

This letter was placed where she would not 
fail to see it in the morning, whose first 
breaking was very near, ere my eyes were 
closed in sleep and deep thankfulness. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“major” settles it. 

When I came in sight of the little arbor, 
nestled in the far corner of Philippa’s manor 
of one acre, a pretty picture presented itself. 
Major was pleading my cause to the best of 
his ability, with persuasive eyes and uplifted 
paw — while Philippa, my Philippa! was brush- 
ing aside a few tears, that I was presuming 
enough to believe came from a heart too 
happy to repress them. 

“Philip!” was all she said, but her eyes 
spoke the rest, as I clasped her to my heart at 
last, without a growl from Major at my hard- 
ihood. 

After I had asked a few questions, and 
stopped the answers before they were half 
spoken, she hid her blushes on my shoulder, 
and we sat in happy silence. 

Raising her head finally, Philippa said, “ Phil 
darling, I know why you preferred that I 
should call you ‘ Mr. Faulconer’ in those now 
distant days. It was because you wanted me 
to wait until I could say something nice with 
Phil!” 

“And you” — I replied, “wanted no other 
arm about you, even in a dance, preferring to 
wait for mine. My arms, as well as my heart, 
have been fairly aching for you, Philippa! 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


131 


This is the third time I have tried to clasp 
you in them, within a few days.” 

“ It was hard, for both of us, in the conserv- 
atory; but if you failed there twice, Phil, you, 
evidently remembered what Rory O’Moore 
said — judging from your present position!” 

“How do you like the presence of a mutual 
friend ?” I asked, soon after. “ Is it not rather 
embarrassing to have him here, just now ?” 

“ How good of you! for my birthday; and 
how did you accomplish it ? I found him here 
when I reached the arbor, and we cried for 
joy at the meeting, at least I did — for that, 
and thinking of how I loved you.” 

“It must have been our good fairy, the 
robin, that enabled me to deliver Major safely 
to you, and also to secure the right size for 
this ring that I am slipping on your finger, 
Philippa.” 

“She looked grave for a moment, as the 
solemn feeling of all it meant came over her, 
and then came closer still to me, in quiet 
trustfulness. 

“Do you know, Phil,” she said presently, 
“I believe I loved you at that first meeting in 
Auckland, for I really knew then what my 
answer would be to the robin’s message. I 
felt still more of it in the row-boat, and on 
the steamer — when you drew my wrap about 
me — I was sure of the love in my heart. It 
has been a regular progression since — at Ven- 
ice, Como, Montreux, everywhere. Is it not 


132 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


wonderful that love can increase so, and 
never cease ? But Phil, what zvas Ethel talk- 
ing about ?” 

“A receipt for caramels, my dear, as you 
would have learned if you had not jumped, 
for fear of interrupting fond lovers. 1 owe 
her one, for breaking up our conversation at 
its most tender period and causing you to 
lame your ankle. How is it, now ? ” 

“Almost well, and you must forgive her; 
but was it not a good jump! ” 

“Too good by half. Don’t try any more, 
for I am older than you, and when I follow, 
my bones creak with the strain,” said I. 

“Did you jump, too?” she exclaimed. 
“Well, I will be good hereafter, for I can’t 
have you taking risks in your old age. I shall 
never jump to a conclusion again!” 

She turned to me very seriously, a moment 
later, and said, “ Phil, do you think you have 
given me time enough for those ‘ comparisons’ 
that were to be so valuable in my new life 
here ? To be sure I crowded all in I could. 
It was quite a round of gayety — but a week 
is a rather short time, isn’t it, for my education 
in society ?” 

“ It certainly is, and I ought to have thought 
of it, but it is too late now,” I said, resignedly. 
“Have you revised your childish views about 
not going into society very deeply ?” 

“ I like it in a limited way,” she said de- 
murely — “but hush! 1 see Jack and Ethel, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


133 


and they are pretending not to know we are 
here. They will sit outside there, if we seem 
not to see them; and talk for our benefit, I 
have no doubt. 

“Yes,” said Jack, sitting lazily down and 
lighting a cigar, “they are slow, very slow, as 
you were saying. Now we have been en- 
gaged, how long ? Well, it doesn’t matter— 
a good while — and these poor innocents 
haven't found it out yet. I wonder if they 
will ever be engaged ?” 

“They have tired me out,” said Ethel. 
“Trying to help them is no use. Did you 
ever shoo hens, Jack ?” 

“I shoed a horse once, on a bet,” said he, 
ruefully, “and still carry the scars.” 

“ Shooing hens, is different, ” rejoined Ethel, 
gravely. “You have a nice little coop all 
ready for a couple of old hens, where they 
could be very comfortable; and you try to 
induce them to go into it. But they squawk 
and run, and you chase them everywhere to 
get them to enter where they belong and 
might be so happy. It is no use, they will 
go anywhere rather than to their own coop. 
It is exasperating!” 

“Nonsense! We hardly fluttered! Did 
we, Phil ?” exclaimed Philippa, into their am- 
bush. 

“ Your head must be turned, Ethel, with the 
‘Puss in the corner’ game that you tried to 
induce Phil to play in the conservatory. And 


184 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


I will thank you not to speak of him as an 
old hen. It is neither dignified nor descrip- 
tive in any way,” said Philippa, severely. 

“O! what a demure little puss you were 
yourself, Philippa!” exclaimed Ethel, “to have 
been there all the time, without my knowing 
it. And did you hear what she called him, 
Jack? No longer ‘Mr. Faulconer’ but ‘Phil!’ 
1 am not sure but it was ‘ dear Phil.’ How 
long have you been engaged, children ? We 
must bless them, Jack. It is the usual thing 
for the old folks to do. But you are really too 
young, Philippa, to think of it, and though 
Phil is old enough, he develops so slowly.” 

“It is time that I hastened the process, 
then,” answered Philippa; but Ethel caught 
her nowin a great hug and then said to me, 
“ I suppose you think, Phil, that she is good 
enough to eat, but there are others hungry 
for earthly food. Will you be kind enough 
to hint to your Phillis, or Philippa, that it is 
past the lunch hour and we would like to be 
invited in ?” 

Philippa laughed, and retorted, “I am sure 
Phil will find me ‘ not too good for human 
nature’s daily food ’ — but of course you look 
at it differently, Ethel!” and led the way 
with me to the house. Ethel could not re- 
sist calling after us; “Thank you so much 
Phil, for your qualified endorsement of me 
to Jack, in London. I was equal to any one 
to be found ‘ almost anywhere,’ it seems. I 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


135 


note the exception before me; and yet you 
knew me so much earlier.” 

“Jack has been telling tales,” I answered, 
“but did he say what a commercial view he 
took of you ? Very much as if you had been 
a block of shares on the Stock Exchange.” 

“ Yes, it is the dear fellow’s pretty, figurative 
way. He thinks I am literally as good as gold, 
another commodity on the exchange. But 
you must not slave too hard there, Jack,” said 
Ethel, wilfully refusing to take my view. 

“Jack is right about your being as good 
as gold, Ethel,” said Philippa, “but you have 
one fault, dear — you will meddle between 
lovers. It is very dangerous, especially in a 
conservatory! ” 

“Meddle to help out a muddle, I never will 
again!” exclaimed Ethel. “There is no 
gratitude left in this world.” 

“If you will give us the whole of ‘Si tu 
savais,’ with the same dramatic fervor that 
you put into that line with which I was 
favored in the conservatory — all shall be for- 
given, Ethel,” I said, finally. 

After lunch, Jack said that he had brought 
down a bottle of champagne on a bet with 
Ethel that we would be engaged on Philip- 
pa’s birthday. Perhaps Ethel had forced 
things a little, to win. At any rate he was pre- 
pared to pay, and would propose the health 
of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Faulconer — to be. 


136 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


It sounded so strange to Philippa, in that 
way, that she flushed slightly, but I rose 
quickly to propose a health to our good 
friends here and abroad, who had done their 
best to pave our way to happiness. 

Philippa said there should be still another 
toast to Major, who first introduced us, and 
settled every difficulty as a mutual friend. 
At a signal from her, he barked approval. 

It is wonderful how fast the news of an 
engagement travels. First, the good old 
Vicar, Mr. Harley, called. He laid his hand 
upon Philippa’s head as if she was but a child 
still, saying, “I knew your grandparents, my 
dear, and I married your father and mother. 
From present indications, my services may 
again be required,” he added, with a smile. 
“That is, if I continue to officiate, but it is 
doubtful if I hold the living beyond next 
month, so it may fall to my successor to unite 
you, my friends. Rest assured my heart will 
be with you always. I have known your 
family long, and had warm friendships with 
members of it who have passed away. I re- 
member you, Philippa, when you were play- 
ing in this very room, and unconsciously con- 
soling your father’s grieving heart; for he 
loved your mother dearly, as you do and al- 
ways will, Philip.” 

Turning to me, he said: “ I heard from your 
father a little of what he so wisely planned. 
He called on me when here, and I enjoyed 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


137 


his visit very much, recognizing those ster- 
ling qualities that I had known in others of 
the race. 

Come and see me soon, and let me take 
you and Philippa over the old church, where 
there are some ancient Faulconer monuments 
and inscriptions that cannot fail to interest you 
both." 

We promised to do so, and both of us had 
the same thought — that he was another link 
in the joining of our lives. 

An allusion of his decided me to speak now 
to Philippa about a matter near to my heart, 
even in those early days of our engagement. 

“ When shall we be married ?” I asked, and 
I thought the little conscious color which the 
question brought to her face, might indicate 
that the same subject had been considered by 
her. 

“When would you like, Phil?" she said, 
with a pretty demureness that she knew 
always impelled a demonstration from me. 
After the demonstration, I answered, “ If I did 
not know how self-reliant you are, and how 
tenaciously you hold to your convictions, 
I might think that your mind was a blank on 
this subject, ready for me to write upon. 
Suppose I am audacious enough, Philippa, to 
write ‘ this day month!’ Remember, we can 
then have this good man’s services to unite us, 
he who knew your father and mine, and who 
married your parents." 


138 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Philippa’s reply was in a look that she liked 
to give me as a special comfort for my long 
waiting. It told the sweet story of perfect 
trust; and thus a desire to grant all I could 
wish. 

“ I never believed in long engagements, 
Phil!” she murmured, at least that was the 
smothered purport of what I heard. 

“ Really, dear, I can think of no good reason 
why we should wait. I wish it too, ” she 
said, half shyly, in a low voice; and then 
looking into my eyes with all her heart show- 
ing in her own, she added — “ Phil, darling, I 
love you utterly, and we both know it. 1 
cannot dissemble, nor put many pretty airs 
upon it; and it will fill me with joy to feel 
that you are my husband, because I can care 
for as well as love you. 

You need care in many ways from me, as 
well as I from you. 

It is a practical view, after all, you see. 

I fear you will find me very practical and 
serious-minded for a young wife,” she added, 
with a little dwelling on the last word, as if 
she liked it. She continued, presently — 

“ It would be very hard for us to put on the 
fiction of not caring for each other, that some 
married people affect. It is almost as bad as 
a cheap parade of affection in public. I shall 
never wear my heart upon my sleeve, Phil, 
but I am not ashamed of my love. It is not 
what I took you for, dearest.” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


139 


“You will wear out a good many of my 
sleeves, I am well convinced,” I said, “but 
tell me why you consider yourself so serious- 
minded. Of course I took you seriously, 
but— 

“ That must be it, Phil; I shall always be 
serious-minded in consequence. Think what 
a little owl I am, compared with Grace or 
Ethel, in sustaining badinage or repartee. 

Perhaps I have not quite interest enough in 
it; though 1 do enjoy a funny situation; and 
Ethel’s sallies always amuse me, if I cannot 
excel, myself. By the way, you must write 
Grace, now, for that theory of hers. 

She wanted to help you, I think, Phil!” 
sagely concluded Philippa, with a merry 
sparkle dancing in her eyes. 

“I have long wondered how much of 
Grace’s conversation and mine, you thought 
had a bearing upon yourself,” I answered; 
“but wait until I write my letter and you shall 
see my opinion of your course.” 

I wrote at once, as follows: 

“Dear Mrs. Clearfield: 

Please send 4 theory’ at once. I think it is all 
right, but Philippa and I are both anxious to 
see it. The very dangerous habit of talking 
in a veiled way about a third person, even if 
she is but a child, has borne its usual fruit to 
you and me. Philippa more than half under- 
stood us — that you, for instance, desired to 
make me an object of at least some interest 


140 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


to her; and that I wished you to have my 
heartfelt thanks for your help (with Mr. Clear- 
field on your mind, too!) We shall never 
forget your unselfish thought for us. We 
were both shy, as you know, and owe much 
to you and Major in helping us to our present 
happiness. A visitor is approaching the 
Lodge, laden with more congratulations, and 
I must close this and mail it. The different 
‘ whys ’ and ‘ why nots * that you used to pro- 
pound, can readily be answered by yourself, 
now. 

Yours truly, 

PHILIP FAULCONER.” 

“ P. S. Phil has left room for me to add a 
line or two, dear Grace, just to tell you that I 
have found out the reason of his former pref- 
erence for ‘Mr. Faulconer.’ It was a very 
good reason, I assure you. Phil is always 
good, and so I shall marry him in a month 
from now! I wish you could be here. I am 
so happy! and as I love you very much, I 
wish you to know of it from me. Tell Dr. 
Pell, that I sent him a long letter yesterday. 
I must know if it fails to reach him; for he 
will want to hear many things that I have 
tried to make clear, and I shall rewrite if nec- 
essary. A most determined-looking woman 
has'now nearly reached the door, who is sure to 
have much on her mind for my good. I know 
I have your sympathy, and Phil is here to fall 
back on, if I am not able to defend my posi- 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


141 


tion. He looks as if he foresaw a conflict, 
and was to remain for the present an amused 
spectator of my inexperienced warfare. 

Your loving 

PHILIPPA.” 

Mrs. Grant proved to be what the flippant 
youth of this day would call “a terror/’ 
Energy, aggressive virtue, and a desire to dis- 
charge every duty, were stamped upon her 
face, and evidenced even by her walk. 

She advanced upon Philippa like a hen hawk 
swooping toward a chicken. “ How old are 
you, child ?” she demanded, before the ordi- 
nary civilities were hardly over. 

I had been forewarned of some of Mrs. 
Grant’s peculiarities, and knew that much 
allowance had to be made for sometimes un- 
warrantable questions, and proffers of advice — 
because she meant well, on the whole. 

I did not know but Philippa would think 
herself back at school, and make a courtesy 
before answering; but she simply replied, 
“ Just seventeen, Mrs. Grant.” 

“ Too young, entirely too young,” said Mrs. 
Grant, turning and looking fiercely at me, as 
if Philippa’s age was my fault. “ Your char- 
acter has not had time to form, yet, and you 
don’t know your own mind in such matters. 
You have a long engagement before you, now, 
and that is bad, except that you may find out 
your mistake in time. I mean no reflection 
on you, Mr. Faulconer, only it would have 


142 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


been wiser to wait a few years, until this 
child had gained in experience, in opportu- 
nities for comparison, and general knowledge 
of the world. I feel strongly on this subject, 
and I speak strongly.” 

“It is well to have clear convictions, Mrs. 
Grant,” 1 said, “and no doubt it is wise to 
voice them, sometimes.” I now gave way 
for the real culprit to answer, which she did, 
with a sly hit at me. 

“ Philip had your ideas about opportunities 
for comparison, and gave me plenty of time 
for that, but I did not find any one that would 
at all compare with him! (giving an adoring 
glance of mischief at me). I agree with you, 
Mrs. Grant, about long engagements, and so 
we are to be married in a month.” 

The poor lady gasped something about 
“outrageous!” as she sank back in her chair, 
and fanned vigorously to refresh herself for a 
renewed attack. 

“Do you know how to manage a household, 
and servants; anything about marketing, 
sewing, keeping accounts, your duties to the 
poor — anything of anything, child?” she asked 
in grand summary. 

“1 had to do about all the things you 
mention, when I was indeed but a child,” 
answered Philippa, quietly; “ and as we were 
poor ourselves, aunt and I, we had special 
opportunities for seeing the right and wrong 
methods applied among some that were 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


143 


poorer. My aunt had to check officious and 
patronising people, sometimes, when they 
were too outrageous or meddling. There 
were angels of mercy, and there were people 
who worse than blundered in their thought- 
lessness, or persistence in declaring that the 
poor, of necessity, had no judgment of their 
own.” 

“A good many of them don't know what 
is best for them ” said Mrs. Grant, “but 1 am 
glad you have some knowledge of these 
things, and I shall want you to join several of 
our charitable organizations.” 

“ You will have to excuse me for the pres- 
ent,” said Philippa. “Aunt had about decided 
we were over-organized in our neighborhood, 
and advised me to look into things carefully 
before joining many projects; so I will wait a 
while, Mrs. Grant. I may not join any, but 
1 shall not forget the poor; only we may 
differ in ways of helping them. Aunt used 
to say, that one of the best things to learn 
was respect for each other’s differences of 
opinion, and methods of work.” 

“Your aunt must have been a strange 
woman,” said Mrs. Grant. 

“ She was a good and wise one, and I loved 
her very dearly,” replied Philippa, with much 
feeling, while a little color mounted to her 
face. 

After Mrs. Grant had gone, Ethel came 
timorously to the doorway, and in much show 


144 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


of alarm, said, “Were you awfully scolded, 
dear? 1 heard such peremptory tones from 
Mrs. Grant that I thought I must come to 
your help, even if you had been very bad; 
but Jack held me back. He is so strong. O, 
dear! here is another. Good-bye!” 

The lady who now called, Miss Wheatleigh, 
was one whose kind and simple manners, 
gentle voice, and sweet, though rather sad 
face, were in striking contrast to our late 
visitor; who, whatever her virtues, lacked 
the graces to adorn them, and that best social 
quality, consideration for all alike. Miss 
Wheatleigh had this to perfection, with a 
foundation of sterling character and common 
sense. 

She and Philippa were at once drawn to 
each other, and I was glad of such a friend 
and counsellor near us. 

She made a long call, and in taking leave of 
Philippa, looked a little sadly and wistfully at 
her, as if old recollections were stirred; and 
after a pause, said, “I think you are right, 
dear, though it seems rather young to be 
married; but you have had more experience 
than most people of your years, and are 
more mature than many older. You have 
every right to happiness together now, with- 
out waiting the vicissitudes of time and chance. 

I loved and lost a dear one, forty years ago, 
and have always been thankful that no tem- 
porizing delay of either of us prevented our 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


145 


union. It was in God’s hands, notours. Yes, 
you, my children, (if Mr. Faulconer will excuse 
the term as applied to him) are wise to join 
your fates now. I am not often so sentimen- 
tal, but the starting forth of your young lives 
together, has awakened old memories. I met 
your father very pleasantly, Mr. Faulconer, 
on his visit here, and was much interested in 
his views on public questions. He had most 
just ideas on the excellencies and limitations 
of the two great branches of the English 
race. His illustrations of the conservative 
tendencies and prejudices of our insular life 
here, in making people opinionated at times — 
were varied with instances of recklessness and 
grandiloquence that occasionally come to the 
surface of your American life, in its wonderful, 
seething, nervous development. It is so 
much easier to be partisan than fair, that your 
father’s treatment of all questions was most 
instructive and entertaining. I feel deeply 
for you in the loss of so good a father.” 

After this, Philippa and I were alone for 
sometime, and she presently said — “\ like 
Miss Wheatleigh. Her call has done me good ; 
especially after our former caller’s rather rude 
manners. She discomposed me just a little, 
though I am ashamed that it should have been 
so. Phil, dear, how nice it will be to have all 
the rights and dignities of a wife to defend 
myself with; though I suppose Mrs. Grant 
would say the rights will be few enough. 


146 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


We have not yet talked of where we are 
to live, but of course it will be in America. 
Your father would have us there, I am sure, 
and so it shall be; but can we not visit this 
dear spot sometimes ?” 

“ I will come here, ” I said, “on as frequent 
and long visits as you wish ; in fact, every time 
you invite me. Mrs. Brown shall keep every 
thing ready for our arrival at any time. This 
has not troubled you I hope.” 

“Do I look troubled, Phil ?” 

1 looked very closely, to be quite sure. 

The house party was voted a great success 
by Philippa’s guests.— “ Notwithstanding that 
one dismal evening when Phil was bad!” as 
Ethel said. 

Philippa turned to me just as Jack and Ethel 
were leaving, and said — “ I suppose we might 
answer Ethel’s questions, now” 

“ Certainly,” I replied, and addressing Ethel, 

1 gravely remarked — “Shezs!” while Philippa 
followed with — “ He is not \ ” 

Noticing how mystified Jack looked, Ethel 
laughed, and said — “They have just found 
time to answer questions which I asked on 
the steamer, several weeks ago. After ma- 
ture consideration, Phil decides that Philippa 
is a ‘ dear little thing;’ and Philippa concludes, 
finally, that Phil is not ‘ altogether horrid. ’ 
They have been a long time debating these 
things, but it is comforting to hear from them 
even at so late a day.” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


147 


She turned back and gave Philippa one last 
hug, with something besides fun in her eyes; 
seizing Jack’s arm as if she had one comfort 
left, at least. “ Goodbye, until the wed- 
ding!” they said. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 

MARRIED. 

"On the 1st inst., Mr. Philip Faulconer, of Faulconridge, 
New England, to Miss Philippa Faulconer, of Faulconridge, 
Sussex, only child of Sir Philip Faulconer, Kt., deceased. 
Both bride and groom descend, in tenth generation, from 
Sir Philip Faulconer, Kt., of Faulconridge, Sussex — 1560- 
1645. 

New York and Auckland papers please copy.” 

Yes, Philip and Philippa at last! We were 
married quietly in the old church of our an- 
cestors, by Mr. Harley, whose incumbency 
would cease the very next day. We had a 
small reception at the Lodge. The venerable 
clergyman quoted with much feeling as he 
left us, “ God, the best maker of all marriages, 
combine your hearts in one.’' 

Ethel and Philippa tried to make a merry 
parting, and ended with a few tears. Ethel 
said hers were shed because 1 was so cruel 
as not to wait for the double wedding that 
she and Jack had proposed later. 

Mrs. Brown drew Philippa to her bosom in 
a long embrace, and then we entered the car- 
riage and were whirled away to the station. 

I had her at last to myself, my wife now — 
my own! 

“How strong that feeling of possession 
is with men. Particularly with^yoz/, I mean, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


149 


darling,” added Philippa, rearranging some 
crumpled attire; “ for I know you do not like 
to be included in a general remark, even. 
Why, I wonder ? to quote Grace again.” 

I whispered two or three reasons, and sug- 
gested more, but those would answer for the 
present, she said. 

I had secured a compartment to ourselves, 
and we sped along toward Devonshire for our 
honeymoon (if that old-fashioned term is still 
allowable) too happy for many words. 

That was a fortnight ago — so the calendar 
said, but she had been mine always, my heart 
told me. Philippa admitted that we might 
have been united in a previous existence, 
and was firm in her belief that in a life 
beyond this we should still be near each 
other. 

There was a wonderful agreement in our 
views on most subjects! 

‘•'It is so much easier to agree with you, 
Phil; and as you are generally right, I make a 
very good average, and save worry in trying 
to form decisions. In vital matters, you will 
be glad for my help, of course!” 

We were now at lovely Lynton, in lodg- 
ings with Mrs. Larch, as the reader may have 
suspected; for it would have broken that 
good woman’s heart if we had gone else- 
where. We had arrived by coach from 
Minehead some days before, and later would 
continue our journey to Clovelly, Penzance, 


150 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Torquay, the Isle of Wight, and so back to 
the Lodge; but we were in no hurry to leave 
our present abode. 

I have called Lynton lovely, but that only 
faintly describes it. A fairer spot or one more 
resourceful for pleasant excursions, would be 
hard to find in England. 

We had made many of these, and finally 
decided that a certain nook near (but not too 
near) the grand sea cliff pathway, should be 
our particular haunt. Sequestered itself, yet 
holding a magnificent view of ocean and 
coast line, there was no question that the se- 
lection reflected the greatest credit on Philippa, 
who had developed real genius in that direc- 
tion, as I had just told her. 

“I have developed a most extraordinary 
capacity for absorbing with the greatest com- 
placency, my husband’s praises of about 
everything 1 do, or say, or think,” she re- 
plied, with a smile of content. 

A little later, she said, “Is it sellish, Phil?” 
I looked at her glistening eyes, and lips that 
quivered as she finished her question — and 
knew as well what she meant as if she had 
explained it all. 

“You mean, dear, this deep happiness that 
we both feel, and the drawing it so closely 
about us. Whether this exclusiveness is self- 
ish — I presume was your thought,” I said. 

“ I suppose we have a present right, at any 
rate,” she sighed. “I know you have earned 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


151 


it, in waiting till honour would let you speak — 
and it was so hard to wait, too! But when 
we come forth into the world again; as life 
goes on, what may we keep always, and what 
must be sacrificed for the good of that world, 
Phil ?” 

“We are agreed, that for the present we 
are within our rights, at least, Philippa; and is it 
not a wonderfully sensible custom, sanctioned 
by long usage and founded in great wisdom — 
this blessed retiracy of two! It furthers a 
more intimate acquaintance of each other’s 
real character, and shows them gradually, 
how they may best take up the burdens of life 
in mutual helpfulness. The scoffers and 
carpers call it a fit time for repentance, but 
they are a poor folk, who sting themselves 
worst, in trying to reach humanity with their 
darts. Now as to the other part, the coming 
forth again into the world. If we have loved 
aright, Philippa, must it not be true, that a 
mighty desire is within us to help humanity 
all we can ? All the world loves a lover — 
and it looks charitably and in much kindness 
upon the retirement of lovers, in their first life 
together. The least the lovers can do then, 
as they come forth, is to help the old world, 
and all that are struggling, striving, groping 
and falling, in this little span of life. Help to 
a worthy goal. Perhaps the best measure of 
what real love truly is, may be found in the 
spirit with which the world is re-entered. I 


152 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


know your love has made me a better man, 
with higher hopes, and I am content.” 

“And I, too,” said Philippa, as she kissed 
me. “I felt that there could not really be 
anything to give up, and now I am sure of it.” 

We found it hard to leave Lynton, where 
days of quiet delight passed away so quickly 
that we wondered at the lapse of time. How 
endeared it was, and always would be to us; 
the walk by the cliffs along the coast, the glens 
below at Lynmouth, and all those little nooks 
and crannies that Philippa’s genius found. 

“If I had not known you, Philippa, as 
something far different, I might think you 
secretive by nature,” I said. 

“Yes, my face told you finally — with Ma- 
jor’s assistance!” she replied. 

“ I am convinced that you say these things 
for the resultant penalties,” said I, very 
gravelv. 

“You shall not deter me by exacting them !” 
she exclaimed. “ It is one of my new rights.” 

“One of the most entertaining things 
I ever witnessed,” I answered, “has been 
the pretty assumptions of the newly-wed — 
woman. She is so unconscious of them that it 
is delicious. In a suprisingly short time after 
she has left the church — with such shy, almost 
pleading looks toward her new protector — a 
transformation takes place. You meet the 
happy pair a week later, and proprietorship, 
matronly dignity, and entire confidence of 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


153 


capacity to manage new responsibilities, are 
indelibly marked upon her pretty face. An 
assured feeling pervades her. Why is it, 
Philippa ?” 

“This deserves serious consideration,” she 
answered. “ You are either upon the brink 
of a great discovery, or else you have belied 
this impersonal bride sadly. 1 will tell you 
my conclusion when 1 can arrive at one, and 
now, as your cigar is finished, shall we go in ?” 

As I turned toward Mrs. Larch’s room, a few 
minutes later, to deliver her a message, a 
voice floated very gently down from the 
stairs, which Philippa was mounting. 

“1 have arrived at a conclusion — Mr. Faul- 
coner!” 

“A tabooed word!” I exclaimed, “ and 
deserves a penalty, which shall be exacted 
presently.” 

The laughing face that had looked over the 
banister a moment, withdrew, quite undis- 
mayed at this threat. 

Clovelly is like Venice, in its unique position 
of having no counterpart. 

There could not be greater unlikeness other- 
wise; for Venice has water pathways, while 
Clovelly’s lanes are so hard and steep that only 
men and donkeys can climb them in the 
business of life. 

We took the Hobby Drive, or walked it, 
and that other delightful ramble to Gallantry 


154 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Bower, both charming excursions, as all know 
whose good fortune it has been to make them. 

Philippa was bubbling over with high 
spirits on that perfect day which greeted us 
for the Hobby Drive, or “ Hubbv ” Drive as the 
urchin called it, who started us upon our way. 

“Do you suppose, Phil, that he could have 
meant any thing, under that innocently-im- 
passive face of his ?” 

“I think it hardly likely in one so young,” 
1 answered. “He would respect my years, at 
least, and 1 think he had the impression that 1 
was your father, or uncle, from the contrast 
between my age and gravity, and your youth 
and liveliness.” 

“Now, Phil,” she protested, “don’t get 
that idea of discrepancy in years into your 
head, or I shall put on a cap and take to knit- 
ting socks! I have done the last, in my time. 
How do you like that expression, fellow 
ancient? Really, ten years is just the right 
difference; especially as you have developed 
so slowly, according to Ethel.” 

*' You are bound to make me out quite equal 
to that drummer’s goods on the steamer. He 
styled them ‘ perfection brand,’ but have you 
not heard already from ladies of great experi- 
ence that there is grave danger of spoiling a 
man in that way ?” 

“I suppose their kind spoiled,” said Philippa, 
“and I am sorry for them; but I shall keep 
on to prove that you can’t be.” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


155 


Penzance has its coast excursions, Land’s 
find, St. Michael’s Mount, and quaint fishing 
hamlets, and it also has some lovely inland 
walks — pathways across fields and through 
woods, with an abundance of solid stone 
stiles, which you may use by ancient custom 
to go where you will. 

With a local guide book we traced out and 
followed many of these country paths, some- 
times losing sight of the sea, and again gain- 
ing a glimpse. Our lodgings were on Morab 
Terrace, and that reminds me of how greatly 
pleased we were with this essentially English 
method of caring for travellers. 

We had a bedroom and adjoining sitting 
room, where our meals were served by a deft 
little maid at such hours as we desired. 

The bill was made out for the rooms on our 
departure, at whatever price previously agreed 
on, and at the same time an itemized account 
was rendered of all purchases that the land- 
lady had made on our behalf. 

It was charming to see Philippa’s house- 
wifely and methodical planning for the next 
day’s meal, as she took pencil and paper to 
make out a memorandum over night for Mrs. 
Dale’s convenience. 

‘‘For breakfast, strawberries and cream, 
toast, soft boiled eggs and coffee. For din- 
ner, a pound of salmon, (you like it so, Phil) 
green peas; and Devonshire junket with 
clotted cream, afterward; 1 nearly forgot 


156 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


potatoes and egg sauce. For supper we will 
have toast again, bread and milk (just like 
children!) prunes and cake. There, Phil! 
Have I not planned it well? Have you any 
emendations, corrections or additions, before 
I give it to Mrs. Dale ?” 

“A slight addition,” said I, reaching the door 
barely ahead of her — “ I am hungry!” 

“What, again, Phil! Well, quietly then, 
for I think the maid has a ‘ theory’ about us, 
also, and she might overhear. Where is my 
slip ? I declare, 1 left it on the table, after 
all, when I rushed to the door.” 

“It is my opinion,” said I, “that you left it 
as an excuse for a return, if you reached the 
door first!” 

“ Talk of a bride’s assumption after that ! 
Well, Phil, upon compulsion, and as I must go 
now, I admit it. It was very nice of you, 
dear, to whisper that last thing, instead of 
shouting. 1 told Mrs. Dale that we were 
quiet, domestic people ! ” and she vanished 
with her memorandum. 

Torquay, a drive over breezy Dartmoor, and 
later, Ventnor, at “dear Isle of Wight” as 
Philippa called it, and then home to the Lodge. 

I might have left the bride at the church 
door and concluded my story with the stereo- 
typed assurance that we were happy ever 
after; but this has always seemed too abrupt 
a leave-taking to me; and having followed us 
so far, I shall ask the reader to keep a little 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


157 


longer in our company, if it has not grown 
wearisome. 

It must already have become so to those 
whose temperament is so unfortunately made 
up, that they can see little of interest in a 
heroine who does not give abundant evidence 
of the foibles, inconsistencies, and shallows, 
that belong, we are told, to even the most 
charming of the sex. 

There are other more fortunate experiences, 
nevertheless, and this is one of them. 

Mrs. Brown handed me a letter, after our 
greetings were over, and I saw by the post- 
mark that Mrs. Clearfield’s promised com- 
munication had arrived. After hearty con- 
gratulations, serious advice as to our future 
and special messages to Philippa, she ended 
thus, — “The ‘theory’ that you ask for, might 
almost be called a prophecy, and its fulfill- 
ment so quickly is really wonderful. I give 
it just as I wrote it out on the steamer, before 
I had seen Philippa, and when I was a shy, 
untutored girl myself, according to you and 
Tom. I wonder at my own prescience.” 

On S. S. Prosaic. 

(Miss Mitchell’s Theory Concerning Mr. 

Faulconer.) 

I do not know whether this will ever be 
seen of man, but I feel impelled to write 
down my impressions, my theory, of Mr. 
Faulconer. I only know that he has lost a 


158 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


dear father, and is performing a filial duty for 
him and at his request, in the endeavor to find 
a distant cousin and establish her in the 
ancient ancestral home in England. It is a 
romantic errand, at an impressionable age, 
and undertaken by one whose heart has been 
saddened and softened by a great sorrow — 
that could best be comforted by woman’s 
love, if that is yet unknown. 

He is evidently fancy-free, unless the image 
of this unknown cousin haunts him. It 
would not be strange if this were so. He is 
evidently unappreciative of the charms about 
him on the steamer, though sedulously polite 
to all. He is interested in me as a safe sub- 
ject from whom some lessons may be drawn, 
and I think really likes me as a friend. 1 have 
decided that he is in love with his cousin 
Philippa; as much as a man can be with one 
unseen. 

P. S. Observations previous to their de- 
parture from Auckland, convince me that 
Philip and Philippa are desperately in love 
with each other. One year will tell. 

“ By the expression ‘one year will tell,' I 
meant in a sententious and forcible way to 
state my belief that you would be engaged 
by that time, not married, rash children! 

However, it is done, and I give you my 
blessing. I suppose that Mr. Faulconer felt 
uncertain of the result of his suit, without 
Major. It is the first time on record, 1 think, 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


159 


where a mutual friend has done any good, in 
such a delicate case. 

Tom joins me in a great deal of love to you 
both, all we can spare from each other. 

Faithfully Yours, 

GRACE CLEARFIELD.” 

“Yes,” said Philippa thoughtfully, after a 
moment's pause, “she was indeed a faithful 
friend to both of us, in doing what she could 
to make us read aright our own hearts. 

1 am glad she, too, is happy in her husband. 
We have been very fortunate in our friends. 
A few true-hearted ones are worth a whole ball 
room of mere acquaintances. Do you realize, 
Phil, that I have not been to a ball, or even to 
a great party, yet ? I never really ‘ came out,’ 
you know. Think what I have missed, that 
is so much to many. There are compensa- 
tions, though. Perhaps if I had cared a great 
deal for such things, I should not have cared 
much for you. Imagine it! ” 

“I do not wish to be disobliging, but I 
refuse, ” said I. I was rewarded at once for 
my first refusal to Philippa. 

“ Look ! ” she exclaimed, a moment later — 
“there is your ‘omen,’ ready to welcome us 
home. I shall never love any other bird as I 
do the robin red breast — and I almost think 
I d/d- send that message by him from Auck- 
land ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MY FAULCONRIDGE. 

“lam going to give you a new sensation. 
Phil ! ” 

As I was at that very time but just released 
from the loving embrace that Philippa was 
wont to give me, when parting for even short 
intervals — I answered, “The recent manifes- 
tation is eminently satisfactory, but ‘ thou art 
a creature of infinite variety’ — what is the 
new one to be ?” 

“You don’t think I am too demonstrative, 
do you, dear ? You know we waited so long 
— ages, it seemed to me, and oh Phil, do you 
know one reason why I clasp you so close 
when you are about to leave me ? It is 
because I remember, sometimes, that day 
when you were struggling for the baby’s life, 
in Como; and the same pang shoots through 
my heart now, that did then — the dread of 
losing you. How fervently I thanked God on 
your return, as I do still dear, oftenerthan you 
know. You are going now to London for three 
whole days, and I cannot be with you, for 
my work will be required here as yours will 
be there, in preparing for the voyage home 
to America. I am learning to call that home, 
you see, dear. The new sensation is simply 
a letter; the first one from your wife. I shall 
mail it tomorrow night. ” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


161 


“That will be a comfort to me, certainly, 
Philippa, for I shall have a lonely time with- 
out you, especially after the day’s work is 
done, and I reach my lodgings at night.” 

“Do take care of yourself, Phil. One 
more! Good bye, dearest,” and as the bless- 
ing of my life was left behind, it seemed like 
the sunlight withdrawn. 

We were to sail in a week, and as it chanced, 
in the “Servia,’' which quite delighted Phil- 
ippa. “I must write Grace,” she had said. 
“She told me about your type-setting, and 
how discerning you were for a man not yet 
engaged ! Grace had a great idea, before she 
was married, about the general enlightening 
effect of an engagement. I suppose she 
regards marriage now as a success in further 
enlightenment.” 

1 worked hard in London in finishing up 
those odds and ends that seem small matters, 
but are really important, and take time for 
their disposal. 

The evenings were the loneliest times to 
me, as I had foreseen. It was wonderful how 
vital Philippa’s presence had become to me. 
1 felt lost without her. 1 could almost fancy 
her light step was approaching now, and that 
her arms would be thrown around my neck 
and her lips pressed to mine. There was a 
step, but it was the heavy one of the post 
man — with a letter ! 


162 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


How I turned the missive over and read and 
reread the very plain and simple direction. 

‘'Mr. Philip Faulconer, 

Montague Place, 

(Near British Museum), 

London.” 

I opened it finally — and read, 

“ My Darling Phil: 

1 There’s nae luck about the house, 

There’s nae luck at a,’ 

There’s little pleasure in the house 
When my gudeman’s awa’. 

I have changed one word, you see. 

Lonesome does not half express my state. 
The first night, after lighting the candle, I 
did what you would never believe of me if 
I did not confess it. I looked under the bed, 
to make sure no one was there! Isn’t it 
odd that your ‘self reliant’ wife, as you have 
called me, a matron (which am I, British or 
American ?) should do this in England when 
it never occurred to me as a girl in New 
Zealand ? 

I laughed, myself, when safe in bed, partly 
at that and partly in remembering a story of 
Ethel’s; about the man (newly wed) so very 
fond of his wife, that he got up in the middle 
of the night and lit a candle to look at her! 
Were you stumbling around for that, dear, the 
other night ? If so, the knock you gave your 
toe, drove it out of your mind, judging by your 
ill-suppressed exclamation! 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


163 


You remember I quoted appositely, 

‘ His very foot has music in’t 
As he comes up the stairs ! ’ 

Was it my fancy that you were not quite 
so appreciative of my quotations as some- 
times ? 

Well, you can apply it now, dear, to the 
postman who brings this letter to you ! I 
know I have not addressed it right, but I 
could not surely remember the number, so I 
said, ‘near British Museum;’ for you told me 
there was another Montague Place, and it 
would be too bad for you not to get this, and 
terrible if some one else should get it and be 
so wicked as to read it. 

I had a call from Jack and Ethel yesterday, 
and took them immediately into the conserva- 
tory and sat them down facing me. ‘Now,’ 
said I, ‘if you are both repentant, and promise 
to be good hereafter, I will forgive you on 
behalf of Phil and myself, for your joint con- 
spiracy — particularly your part, Ethel, right in 
this very room ! ’ 

Ethel sighed and said, ‘Yes, this was the 
room, the very chair he sat in — excuse my 
emotion, dear, but Phil and I were children 
together, and there were passages in our 
early life ’ — 

‘There was no passage out for me!’ I 
interrupted, ‘ for the door was locked and I 
had to jump from the window across the moat.' 

‘Gad !’ said Jack, ‘let me see !’ and then 


164 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


gave a long whistle as he looked quizzically 
back from the window to me. 

‘ You did not think it was in me ! did you 
Jack ?’ I said. 

Ethel meanwhile was convulsed with laugh- 
ter and implored Jack to hold her. ‘ It is too 
funny!’ she exclaimed at length. ‘Philippa 
stayed just long enough to hear my sweetly 
sad words, and to hear part of the silence, 
as Paddy said, and then she jumped. I don’t 
wonder that Phil looked savage enough to 
choke me, and I got no receipt for caramels 
of course. Jack, are you holding me ? Thank 
you, dear, I could hardly tell. 

Where is the receipt, Philippa ? Did he not 
leave it lor me ? ’ 

‘ You were to have it on one condition’ I 
answered, ‘ and that was imperative, so of 
course I must obey in a proper wifely spirit.’ 

‘ How she has changed, Jack, ’ said Ethel 
sadly — ‘but what is the condition? You 
can’t mean that he wants a kiss first ! There 
might have been a time — but all that is past,’ 
she murmured, again relapsing into a rem- 
iniscent state. 

* Yes ’ said I, ‘ it is past and I will attend to 
the kissing, my dear. Phil is very good about 
instructing me in that. The condition is 
simply that you and Jack shall be married 
soon enough to attend our international house 
warming.’ 

‘ When, where, and what is that, Philippa ? ’ 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


165 


‘ September 10th, Faulconridge, in Am- 
erica; friends from England and New Zealand 
invited to meet a few American friends, ’ I 
replied. ‘ Mr. and Mrs. Clearfield will be 
there on the way to see his family, and you 
and Jack must come. ’ 

‘ Can we hasten the date of our union 
enough for this, Jack ?’ said Ethel, with a suc- 
cessful imitation of the shy and timid bride- 
elect. ‘ It is very international, and such 
things bind countries together. It may pre- 
vent war ! ’ she concluded. 

‘There will be war if you don't/ said I, 

‘ and here is the receipt, besides a box of 
caramels that I made for you; though you 
don’t deserve them !’ 

She was decorous and subdued after that, 
and so they are coming, besides Grace and 
her husband. 

They were very desirous that I should go 
to the ball with them, which you also spoke 
of, and 1 finally agreed to be ready when they 
called. So their carriage stopped for me that 
same evening, and I have rounded out my 
society education with this rather late ‘oppor- 
tunity for comparison.’ 

I suppose it was a very grand affair, and a 
needed experience, etc. Ethel was radiantly 
happy, and exclaimed ‘ Heavenly ! ’ once, as 
she sailed up to me after a waltz with Jack. 
I pretended great pity for his lonely state at 
the time of the next ball, which comes in a 


166 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


fortnight; while he is away in Scotland on 
business. 

* Poor Jack in smoky Glasgow, while you, 
Ethel, are waltzing with some callow lordling, 
or dashing young officer. I can seem to hear 
Jack quote, 

“ Perhaps she’s dancing somewhere now ! 

The thoughts of light and music make 
Sharp jealousies, that grow and grow, 

Till silence and the darkness ache.” ’ 

She made a little grimace and said, ‘ I have 
not much more time. I shan’t dance after I 
am married. ’ 

I am glad to have been to my one great 
ball, though confirmed in my opinion that I 
should never care much for such affairs — 
while readily allowing that there may often 
be much rational pleasure possible to many a 
bright young girl, with plenty of partners. 
The heartburnings and jealousies that are 
sometimes engendered, I choose to consider 
as exceptional; and certainly only one painful 
case came to my notice — a well known one. 
It was that of a woman, still very handsome, 
who, not content with having sold herself to 
unworthiness for a fortune and title; now 
aims to instil the monstrous and revolting 
idea into her daughter’s heart — that only 
money and rank are worth while. 

Do you wonder that with my life’s happi- 
ness secure, my heart went out to this poor 
young girl, and that the fear crept over me 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


167 


that she, too, might grow hard and unbeliev- 
ing after a few seasons in the false atmos- 
phere that her mother surrounds her with. 
It is too hideous a thought to entertain, and I 
cannot help feeling that there is something 
about the daughter that shows she is intended 
for better things. 

I can hardly trust myself to speak with 
patience of the mother. She has kept herself 
immaculate (if it can be called so), because 
her love of admiration is a little stronger than 
the passion she pretends for the favored 
adorers who dangle about her. I deem her 
little better than the frail creature that you 
drew me from instinctively, in the London 
streets, one evening. Perhaps that waif was 
even less blameworthy, if all were known. 

But a page is enough for this exceptional 
instance of cruel worldliness. To think that 
a whole play or novel is often written with 
the interest centering on such an unworthy 
model, and libel on true womanhood ! 

How I have run on, but I must close now, 
for this mail, without telling you anything 
about the pile of work I have done — so as to 
be ready to attend to you on your return. 
Good bye, darling. (How does it look in 
writing ! ) 

Your own 

PHILIPPA.” 

“ It is so lonesome. Did I say it before ?” 

I arrived at the Lodge a few hours earlier 


168 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


than I had expected to reach there; and it is 
wonderful how much we made of this saving. 

“ It is so much taken from time,” said 
Philippa, after we had greeted each other as 
eagerly as if we had met after a long voyage. 

“I just existed day-times, Phil; but it 
was at night I missed you most.” 

We made our last calls on Miss Wheatleigh, 
Mr. Harley, and the new incumbent, Mr. 
Greenwood, etc. — and as to Major, it was de- 
cided he should go with us to America, so 
there was no leave-taking for him. 

Our voyage was a speedy one for those 
days, though the “Servia” has since been 
outclassed by the mammoth racers that have 
more recently been created. 

As we neared my own Faulconridge, Phil- 
ippa’s eyes danced with expectancy — antici- 
pations of what the new home would bring 
to her life. 

When the house came in full view, at last, 
she started up from her seat with surprised 
delight. 

“Why, Phil, it is the exact image of the 
old house that was burned! Is your father’s 
hand in this, too ? How did he manage to 
copy it so nearly ?” 

She was very quiet in her happiness at this 
unexpected revelation, saying little until we 
had reached my father’s room, as the study 
used to be called. 

She came to my arms then — a way she had 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


169 


learned of showing her deep content — and 
simply murmured “You old darling!” 

“ I have expected this,” I said — “age and ex- 
perience will make their mark finally, and you 
now admit what I have long known must be- 
come apparent — my maturity, we will call it.” 

I then continued more seriously: “This 
one secret about the house, has been hard 
enough to keep, but it has seemed almost as 
if it was my father’s surprise for you. 

You never knew quite all his hope for you 
and myself. There was no trust involved, 
but if our hearts inclined, it would fill him 
with content could he know it. I believe he 
does know it, now. His words to me were 
simply these: ‘Seek her out, Phil, when I 
am gone, and see that she needs for nothing. 
If it should prove that you need each other 
most of all, then the Faulconer branches shall 
unite again.’ ” 

“We did need each other,” whispered 
Philippa, with her true heart looking love 
unutterable out of tearful eyes. 

1 clasped her to me in silence. At length 
1 said, “ That is my father’s portrait, Philippa.” 

She followed my glance, and quickly turning 
to me again, exclaimed — “You are very like 
him Phil. I knew it would be so.” 

She was much interested in the miniatures 
of my own long line of ancestors, and the 
copies of hers that my father had secured, 
reaching uninterruptedly back. 


170 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


“His kindness again,” she said, “for I 
believe he thought it might content me some- 
what to have them here. I do like it, though 
having you is enough — it is all.” 

Philippa soon grew accustomed to her new 
home. Our friends, if lew. were tried ones 
and true; and our list of acquaintances was 
large. We had many calls from the latter at 
first, and I was amused one day when Philippa 
came to me and summarized somewhat,' for 
my edification. 

“ I am learning so much,” she said, with a 
twinkle in her eye — “ or rather learning that 
I know so little, and beginning dimly to see 
opportunities that must be seized if these peo- 
ple are right. Shall I join everything, Phil !” she 
said rather dubiously. “I am told I must do 
this and that, with such specific and particular 
reasons why. Most of them are what are 
called ‘clear duties.’ Duty to myself, to so- 
ciety, to the poor, to education, to the church, 
to woman, to man — no, not to man generally, 
for I am told sad stories of man in the abstract, 
Phil — but there are societies to help classes of 
men, bad as you are collectively. I hear a good 
deal about our modern life being complex — 
and about ‘ altered conditions ’ etc., so that 1 
really begin to feel rather old-fashioned as 
well as bewildered. These people seemed 
very ‘stimulated,’ as one of them called it; 
and many of them were tired as well as tire- 
some — and I could not help thinking that 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


171 


some of them were making life much more 
complex than it need be, and were trying to 
alter some conditions that are quite natural. 

I like your real friends much better; they are 
more reposeful, and dignified without as- 
sumption, and it is so pleasant to be really 
credited with having thought out a few things, 
oneself. The honest, kindly, unassuming 
people, who are blessed with common sense, 
wear so well, in the long run, as you said the 
other day, Phil. I get a little tired of the fad- 
dists, and superficially bright, intense people, 
and worst of all, what your father called social 
climbers — climbing on such unworthy props 
and landing nowhere — for there is no rest 
nor contentment for those who cannot feel 
in their hearts that * worth makes the man, 
the want of it the fellow. ’ ” 

“Now for a concrete example, Philippa, 
illustrative of some of these types. Who was 
your caller, today ?” 

“Mrs. Rouser,” she answered — “who has 
the patriotic societies on her mind. She is a 
Daughter of the Revolution, Colonial Dame, 
Mayflower Descendant — and something of 
the War of 1812 and Mexican War, I believe. 
They keep alive glorious deeds of the past, 
stimulate flagging patriotism — and are of great 
benefit socially, Mrs. Rouser assures me! You 
want me to be benefited socially, don’t you, 
Phil? She said it was all — ‘so interesting, 
quite fascinating, and places one in such 


172 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


pleasant social relations, you know' — but 
when 1 asked her some specific question, she 
glided off into generalities — winding up with 
the same terms: ‘Yes, facinating, my dear, 
and socially, so nice.’ 1 don’t believe she 
really knows much about these things,” con- 
cluded Philippa, incredulously. 

“Very likely not,” said I, laughing — “but 
she is only one type of those who join. There 
are many who think they can best work in 
associated effort, and do work very hard. 
Then others have their attention aroused, and 
a real interest excited in matters of which all 
should have some knowledge. So far as the 
matter is a genealogical one, it has always 
seemed to me decent as well as proper, to 
have as clear a record as possible of one’s ances- 
tors. There is a cheap pretense of not caring, 
as well as foolish vanity in aspiring for notable 
ancestors. The wise course is to trace all 
ancestors faithfully, good or bad, great or 
humble; affording finally, a record — if arranged 
in proper chart form, with notes — that cannot 
fail to interest on a great many sides of life. 
Curious puzzles of relationship at last untan- 
gled — illustrations of weak natures helped by 
stronger mating — romantic episodes surely 
appearing (like Godfrey’s quest, and mine of 
you, Philippa)-— all these go to make, what 
your caller said (more truly than she knew) 
was a ‘ fascinating study.’ ” 

“I am glad our record was preserved,” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


173 


said Philippa. “ How strangely we came to- 
gether through it! How alone in the world, 
till then.” 

A little later she broke into a merry 
laugh, and said: “What a weapon I have in- 
nocently put into Mrs. Rouser’s hands, by my 
inattention to details when she was here. It 
is too absurd! Of course 1 cannot be a dame, 
daughter, or anything else, for I am not 
American born, and your ancestors and mine 
were fighting each other to their heart’s con- 
tent, only a few generations ago ! I must have 
become so absorbed in your identity, Phil, as 
actually to have dreamed that I was born 
here! 

When Mrs. Rouser learns that I am a Briton 
born, she will have her opinion of my appar- 
ent deceitfulness. ‘ She did not take the pains 
to undeceive me,’ she will declare. 1 shall be 
considered an enemy of this grand, free, de- 
lightful country, that I so love for itself — and 
more for you, Phil. But my international 
party must set that right. It will soon be 
time for it. 

Phil, dear, regarding this matter of joining 
things, I am going to defer it mostly, and 
only take on outside responsibilities after 
mature deliberation as to what are best. 
Meanwhile, I will keep your home as bright 
and cheerful as 1 can — trusting that we both 
will never forget to brighten others, as we are 
able. As to my housekeeping, you know I 


174 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


would never be a slattern, nor do I mean to 
worry you and myself by being an oppressive 
and fussy drudge. The house would not 
have the brightness and cheer I have promised, 
if I was.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

INTERNATIONAL. 

They came, as agreed, and what delight- 
ful days we had together, “we six young 
married people,” as Philippa called us — with 
“a fine inclusive complacency,” Grace said; 
while Ethel declared it was the usual sublime 
assurance of the very young bride, who ever 
has small respect for her maturer sisters. 
“Not that we are at all old, my dear,” said 
Ethel, “but you are such a mere child. You 
know you would not listen to reason. She 
would hardly wait a day, Grace, and though 
I was engaged long before, Philippa had the 
audacity to be married first. ” 

“You were so deliberate, Ethel!” quietly 
rejoined Philippa. “They are slow, very 
slow ! ” she murmured, quoting Jack’s words 

that were launched at us in the arbor a few 

* 

weeks before. 

Besides pleasant gatherings within doors 
which served to introduce our old friends to 
these new and dear ones; there was a great 
deal to occupy us in the open air. 

We went riding, rowing, sailing, bathing 
even, though it was a little late for that, and 
the water so cold that Ethel said, “ If we stay 
much longer with you, Phil, skating will be 
added to our festivities.” 1 took Tom and 


176 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


Jack off to New York for a day or two, that 
they might see the metropolis, and at the 
same time give the ladies a chance to rest 
from “the constant whirl Phil has kept us 
in,” Ethel said. 

“lain not slower poky, then, as you once 
declared ” — I remarked. 

Philippa said, “I suppose Phil thinks we 
shall like to talk it all over, while they are 
gone to New York. 'Opportunity for com- 
parison ’ — of views,” she added, looking at me 
with demure significance. 

It had been agreed that on our return from 
New York we should find our “ consorts. ” as 
Tom formally called them, awaiting us at the 
“Perch.” 

This was a rock overhanging the sea at a 
point commanding a magnificent view, though 
itself properly secluded. It had long been a 
favorite spot of mine and had received Phil- 
ippa’s immediate approval on her early inspec- 
tion of the cliff walks with me. She had 
given it the name of “ Perch, ” laughingly, 
and so we all called it; Ethel insisting that it 
was especially appropriate in view of her 
early simile on our contrary and vexatious 
course. “If you had asked me, I suppose 
I should have named it the ‘Coop’ — but 
Perch will answer. You will always remem- 
ber what my opinion was of your first tardy 
footsteps, and how I grew vexed and weary 
in my unappreciated efforts to aid you. ” 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


177 


We arrived at the trysting place, a little 
ahead of the time set, and came upon as pretty 
a picture as fond lover or husband could 
imagine, as we made the last turn of the path. 

It was an unstudied, perfectly unconscious 
one, for the moment that we saw them, ere 
they became aware of our presence. Grace, 
a little the tallest, and most commanding 
figure, darkest in hair and complexion — 
Ethel, a pronounced blonde, with the tinge of 
auburn in her hair that artists delight in — 
while Philippa; but all my readers know 
Philippa! 

She was the first to discover us, and Grace 
the first to speak, as she rose in mock cere- 
mony, saying, “Attend our liege lords !” 

Jack pretended to be overpowered by such 
an array of beauty, massed in solid phalanx, 
and hoped we did not intrude by coming so 
early. 

Ethel reassured him, and quoted finely for 
the benefit of all of us, she said, (though Jack 
murmured, “ Don’t be too inclusive.’ ) 

“ Come in the evening, or come in the morning — 

Come when you’re looked for, or come without warning; 

Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, 

And the oftener you come here the more I’ll adore you! ” 

We were all very glad to be together again, 
without much attempt to disguise the fact. 
After talking matters over at considerable 
length in comparing experiences; Ethel said, 
in a promising interval for gaining my atten- 


178 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


tion — “Phil, we have all had a week of solid 
enjoyment, besides a day or two of serious 
instruction for the gentlemen, in New York, 
under your guiding hand; but there are just 
two things more that I still long for — a base 
ball game, and a clambake — both distinctly 
American institutions, that some of the Inter- 
nationals know nothing about. ” 

“Then,” said I, “it is time they came out 
of such ignorance into the light. 

We will go at once to Boston and see the 
home club play New York, and we will 
celebrate tomorrow with a clambake in out 
orchard, whoever wins.” 

So to Boston we went that same afternoon, 
getting to our seats just before the first inning; 
and Ethel and I were kept busy explaining 
different plays for the next hour or so. Phil- 
ippa got quite an idea of the game before it 
was through, and entered thoroughly into the 
spirit of it. 

“If that coming enfranchisement of women 
brings them into the baseball field, Ethel, 
what position would you advise me to take?” 
she said, on the way home. 

“Catcher! by all means,” answered Ethel 
promptly. “You certainly have shown an 
ability in that direction already; but Phil, 
don’t let her join — for she would be sure to 
try for a home run on the least bit of a hit, if 
you were anywhere in sight!” 

Philippa did no* deny the possibility of her 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


179 


taking some chances. “ I was counted a very 
good runner at school,” she said. 

“I will testify, to your jumping !” said 
Jack, “for I measured the moat where you 
took your flying leap for liberty, from the 
conservatory window.” 

“What recollections you have stirred within 
me,” I exclaimed — “It was there that Ethel 
reminded me of our early days together.” 

“I think it is wicked of you, Phil, when I 
worked so unselfishly for both of you, too ! 
What is the penalty for arson, Jack ?” 

“There is no specific one. Iam exacting 
penalties all the time; but the flame you have 
kindled in this heart can never be quenched,” 
he answered fervently. 

“ I was thinking of burning that wretched 
conservatory, that is all,” she said, with deep 
feeling. “There has been such ingratitude 
shown at my endeavors there, that I will 
gladly promise to stand by you, Grace, in any 
subsequent proceedings, if you will apply the 
match when you visit the Lodge in returning 
to your home.” 

“ I refuse to be brought into this painful 
case, in any way,” replied Grace; “I consider 
my interests better conserved, so to speak, 
without entering that fateful place, except 
for the one specific purpose of viewing the 
moat from the window. I had my own 
troubles in launching Philip and Philippa, but 


180 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


when I had seen them safely into the steamer 
my duty ended.” 

The clambake was a great success and all 
did full justice to what was a novelty to most. 

As the pyramid of shells grew higher and 
higher by their plates, I told them what the 
fastidious youth — new to this kind of ban- 
quet — said to his entertainers, as he saw 
gloves come off and lair fingers open the 
shells and drop the delicious bivalves between 
ruby lips; “Do ladies do that ?” 

Jack had a second inspiration of a senti- 
mental sort, all the more creditable because 
he had eaten so heartily. 

He murmured something aside to Tom and 
me, about our triple good fortune in having 
secured such jolly, sensible, true-hearted 
wives — and I suppose an introspective look 
must have followed my assent — as I was 
debating a suitable toast to embody his fine 
idea — for Grace said; “ Philippa, an excep- 
tionally good opportunity for study of your 
husband in a long voyage together, induces a 
belief that the lack of speculation in his eyes 
betokens a speech.” 

“You are right,” I answered, “my earliest 
mentor in affairs of the heart,” turning 
toward Grace — although Ethel exclaimed re- 
proachfully, “Oh, how can you, Phil! Not 
the earliest !” 

I continued, unmoved by this appeal — 
“ The toast I now propose is an old one, in 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


181 


which we gentlemen pledge the fair ones 
present with us — ‘The ladies, God bless 
them,’ having particular reference to those 
into whose eyes we have looked, for this 
pleasant week here together — each so 
fair, so sweet, so true, that if ever dispute 
could arise among us three, it would be as to 
which was the most fortunate in Heaven’s 
disposal of the special gift.” 

After a short pause — Grace spoke. “As 
I am the eldest, the Dean, so to speak, of the 
woman’s section of this international college 
— where we have learned so much, under 
such pleasant teachers — I must respond for 
my sisters and myself. I can only say in the 
words of that best interpreter of human 
hearts — ‘ Down on your knees, and thank 
Heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love !’ — 
only changing the fasting to feasting. As to 
our prayers, you shall indeed have them so 
long as we prize honor, truth, and constancy 
in man.” 

More merriment followed, but glistening 
eyes were not quite concealed by it. A spirit 
of devout thankfulness pervaded our deep 
happiness, and as I glanced at my companions, 
I quoted, mentally, 

“ He is the half part of a blessed man, 

Left to be finished by such as she ; 

And she a fair divided excellence, 

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. ” 

The day came all too soon when we must 


182 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


part with our guests. Jack’s last words 
were, “Tell all your friends, the country is 
safe — for the international agreement forbids 
war!” Ethel said, sadly, “I forgive you 
both — you dears!” Grace called back, “It 
was a wonderful theory! and has proved so 
practical, too!” Tom had not much chance 
left, but I heard him murmur, as he looked 
admiringly at his wife — “And so lately shy 
and unformed!’' while he made up in his 
hearty hand-shake for what others had denied 
him in speech. 

Philippa and I felt a measure of loneliness 
on their departure — “Not for ourselves, 
dear,” she said — “only somehow for them, in 
going so far away. Oh Phil, my darling, I 
never felt more strongly than tonight, how 
good God has been in bringing us together. 
Do you know how much I love you ?” 

“The same lines come to my mind now, 
that were there just before 1 met you in the 
park at Auckland, Philippa. Remember, I 
had not seen you then, but the love in my 
heart was reaching out for you, or those 
words could not have been so true to me. 

‘ Ask me not why I should love her, 

Look upon these soulful eyes! 

Look while mirth or feeling move her, 

And see there how sweetly rise 
Thoughts gay and gentle from a breast 
Which is of innocence the nest. 

Which, though each joy were from it shed 
By truth would still be tenanted ! 


PHILIP AND PHILIPPA. 


183 


See from those sweet windows peeping, 

Emotions tender, bright, and pure, 

And wonder not the faith I’m keeping, 

Every trial can endure ! 

Wonder not that looks so winning, 

Still for me new ties are spinning, 

Wonder not that heart so true, 

Keeps mine from ever changing too ! ” 

She looked at me, as I concluded, as if she 
would be far more to my life than those lines 
expressed. 

“It shall be Philip and Philippa always, 
darling,” I said, “here and hereafter in 
Heaven.” 

“I believe it, Phil, dearest,” she gently 
whispered, as she came to my arms with 
her eyes full of love, and pressed her lips 
to mine. 





























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Apr -17 WOl 


1901 


APR 


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